His mind was a watermill, his legs were not his. Drevover kept close until he couldn’t keep going, slumping against the same pile of gravel he’s claimed as a throne before. He reached for the boy as his head bent back, heavy and useless.
"I can be kind," he lied, smiling. There was nothing kind between them.
Everything hurt. His head was stuck between a giant pair of pliars. He tried to stand, instead, stuttering, spitting and retching to the side. The cigarette burned away in the puddle of his vomit.
It all made sense. Culain couldn’t exist. Culain was a part of him that he’s left, that he’s smothered, that he’s taken down the apple orchard and left for the spiders to pick. Culain couldn’t exist, not now that he knew exactly what was inside of him, not now that he could read the dead, cold nothingness in every look and every smile.
"…what did you take."
Air pressed out between Culain’s teeth, a beg for the man to lay still even as he gently held out an arm to support the staggering form. The putrid splash of bile on his bare shins did not even make the youth flinch as he crouched, waiting for the words to spill out in choked gasps. His tongue was clicking against his teeth in chiding ‘tsk-tsk-tsk’ as a hand dropped to smooth away the spittle from those thin lips and tilt the chin up, “Not enough, I’m afraid.”
You don’t know where your breath starts and ends until you have cut someone’s throat. In one savage act, you have tied the strings about your fingers and pulled at the piano wire until the notes you heard were no longer longing, until you’ve seen the split of bone and cartilage and everything underneath unfold the flowering pit across the collar of the person you’ve known the most.
It’s why you hide your hands and spare your smiles to remain an ingenuine fraction at the corners of your mouth when you feel your fingers twitch.