disclaimer: don't own.
a/n: i read too many of these.
. . .
He holds liberation in his palm.
(Long ago, so very long ago, he thinks it would be in the form of embraces with the warmth of scarves in winter nights, welcoming smiles laced with genuine cheer and words that would wrap around his tiny, broken heart like cool, white bandages over throbbing scars...
…but he's been waiting for so, so long—each day with more bruises blooming on his limbs, on his heart, on his mind—and god, he's tired of waiting, tired, tired, tired, tiredchippedcrackedshatterednomorenomore—)
It glints in the moonlight, gleaming and grinning in anticipation.
In return, he smiles back as if he already licked clean the honey-sweet vengeance in between his bony, too short fingers.
. . .
He smiles because he's happy.
No, no it's not fake. Truly.
Hm? Why you ask? Well…
It's just that their eyes were exquisite.
(Psst, do you know why they called him a monster? Surely, that's not true. He didn't do anything wrong at all! He swears, really! Oh, but maybe he did have too much fun…
Though in the long run, it won't matter at all anyway.)
. . .
A child, seemingly almost drifting—with meager belongings and a satisfied smile etched on his face—walks down the sidewalk in the shadows of midnight.
(If one would look closely enough, the spots on the rims of his clothing would greatly contrast the blue of his over-sized shirt.)
. . .
And in the morning, the horrors are left behind to rot and torment.
. . .
—end—
. . .