It's a dirty rotten shame
--Elvis Costello, Dirty Rotten Shame
That when you're frivolous and strong
It isn't youth, it's fearlessness
That has been wasted on the young
The cruel are in the cradle
And the bishop's in the bag
It's nothing but a dirty rotten shame
He stands still and silent as the grave, barely breathing as he watches the three children in the next room. His back is pressed flat against the paisley wallpaper, cheek resting on the red doorframe. He watches and waits.
They think they're so smart.
He knows they're planning something -- they always are, whispering to each other when they think no one else is around, carefully gathering resources with anxious pleas for help and nervous tics. They shut up the second they hear an unfamiliar sound, huddling together as though their Love will form an inpenetrable barrier. He tried Love once. Didn't like it at all -- it required too much giving. When he left the woman, he took everything back.
The oldest child, a girl of fourteen or fifteen -- he never paid attention -- was smiling hopefully at her siblings, as though she thought that good might win in the end. As though she were sure that everything was going to be absolutely fine.
She's pretty, he reasons, but not at all intellegent... If only she had been a member when the schism started, then perhaps he would be able to reason with her. Then she wouldn't be living a hell of a life, doing good and avoiding flames at all costs.
He wonders what her eyes would look like if they were reflecting fire. Pity she hadn't been there when her house had burned down. He might have been able to talk her into enjoying it.
The children stand up, holding hands like they might in a 60's domestic comedy, all looking as though they are about to brave the worst. That isn't entirely a lie. He has been called the worst on many occasions, and bowed gracefully every time.
He smiles as they walk out the door, headed, although they don't know it, to their doom.
What a dirty rotten shame.