He recognizes the manic, wolf-like grin on Andras’ lips, the way they sing to each other in voices made out of teeth, in silent waves of rage and desperation. Two broken boys, shattered into pieces by the world around them, made of sharp-edged glass that slices against anyone who gets too close to them, who dares to reach out and touch with anything but cruel intentions. He scoffs. He can’t help it. What is there to like about him? He is a monster pretending to be a lamb, he is a murderer whose hands will always be stained with blood, he is rage and pain wrapped up in a skin that is too tight and feels as though it might burst at any moment. He is trying. He is tired. He doesn’t know who he is. He never did. The tension between them simmers and shifts, a noose around their necks turning into a tug rope laced between their fingers. He glances between the winged man and the few scattered birds brave enough to approach once more, their feathers ruffled, and he slowly clears his throat. His fingers are still white-knuckled when he offers up the bag of bird seed to Andras (Andras Demyan, it sounds nice to his ears, it sounds like a name someone could claim without the ghosts of the past haunting it) and scuffs a cracked hoof into the dirt. “If you scatter it… they’ll come closer. Slowly. They spook easy.” Is he talking about the birds, or the two boys in the courtyard? He doesn’t know. |
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