Toy
The oaken door screamed protest as it was thrown open, smashed against a symbol-laden wall, struck against its frame and splintered.
Frantic with rage, he scooped the archaic scrolls from their places and deposited them away—far away—he had already forgotten where.
Studying. What was this never-ending fight against an in-grained stupidity?
He took up the closest instrument of writing; his mind didn't register—he thinks it was a pen, but on Tuesdays it's a knife.
Why this plight of hit-and-miss, eat-and-eaten, thrust-and-kill?
He begins to scratch on the yellowing wall, in a space not too cluttered, a thought of sorts; a path of scrambled bits; like following chocolate stains on a muddy path.
And why—God, why—do people not see him?
From a tray, resting neatly in its slumber, he takes a handful of brightly singing pills. He chews their bodies and swallows their souls, pondering the taste of Itachi.
He's here.
The instrument drops with a yelp, either his or the object's, and no sooner is he pinned when his mouth is captured, embraced in a losing-fight for control.
There is wetness and growth, thrusting and musical pain.
He arches, and throws a feeble body against the freshly woven word now escaping his brother's crashing lips:
Toy.