Thief
Dark. The friend of thieves and murderers. The manor house was dark. Following this logic, the house was a friend to thieves and murderers.
Not to the boy asleep on the bed. He wasn't an insomniac. Not yet. He hadn't driven himself that far yet with his idealistic view on justice. So he was asleep. Asleep in this house that was a friend to thieves and murderers.
At midnight. The witching hour. Of incantations and sensual promises of blood and sacrifice.
But the thieves and murderers weren't asleep. Or just the thief, in singular. Not yet a murderer, but soon. Not now. Not tonight, in the dark manor. His mission tonight was merely to brand and frighten.
The boy sits up. There is no grogginess. His mirror eyes are alert, woken by a nonexistent sound.
There is fear, the thief but not yet murderer notices with a shiver of anticipation. Fear in the dark as pitch eyes. In his tense thin frame. The identical lithe body that matches the thief's.
He peers into the darkness, this boy. Convincing himself that he is alone as he has many times before. That the darkness hides nothing. He is wrong. As he is every time.
Every night it has been enough for the thief. To watch the fear and then leave. To know he has run his finger across the boy's subconscious bringing forth this reaction.
But not tonight. The makeshift tool in the thief's hand is gripped more tightly. The thief savors this moment. And then he moves.
The boy's eyes lock on the thief's. The movement has been just enough.
"B." The boy mouths the word rather than says it. No. Not a word. A name.
"L," the thief echoes. This is barely spoken. Mere breath being exhaled. But it still reaches the boys ears. He tenses, a shudder flowing through him. His eyes close, the lids fluttering over the black of the pupils. His lips part, an intentional gasp escaping him.
This is all the encouragement the thief needs.
He lunges, knocking the boy to the ground. The dark muffles the sounds. Of the panicked breathing. Of a brief fight before the boy is pinned, held to the ground.
"You won't forget me, Lawli," the thief breathes. "I won't let you. Whenever you close your eyes, you'll remember me."
And the thief brings up the tool, and pushes it against the boy's eye.
The boy doesn't dare to move, not even out of pain. He stops breathing, only able to focus against the blade being dragged against his eyelid. Not the eye. The lid. He represses the desire to vomit.
A thin membrane and an ability to repress the urge to blink. That is all that is stopping him from losing an eye.
How has he practiced this? This thief that has trapped him. How long had he been looking at the boy with this idea dancing in the back of his mind?
The boy feels blood running down his eye as the thief marks the other. A whimper escapes the boy. A show of weakness. He hates it. The thief thrives on it.
"Shh," the thief croons, stroking his face.
It is excruciating this waiting. It is beautiful. Tainted. But it is beautiful. Beautiful to this thief.
He pulls away from the boy. He has finished.
The boy opens his eyes. Eyes that are mixed with tears and his own blood, momentarily blinded. But justice is blind.
The blood clears away, the thief whispers one last time.
"You will not forget."
It is after this, that the boy cannot sleep. Not even when the safety of the sun has chained the darkness once more. Because even when his eyes close in the light, he sees them. The B's carved into his eyes. Into the boy eyes. The boy who could no longer be a boy. The boy who had to blind himself.
Even when the marks have faded, he doesn't close his eyes.
The thief has stolen his ability to forget.
Just as he promised.