PSYCHO BLAKE.

     stare cuts towards the other.  a look that tells him he shouldn’t have opened his mouth.  there’s a clawing need to lurch towards murphy.  to press forearm against the column of his neck.  to squeeze airways as though that would stop him from t a l k i n g.  perhaps, the blake siblings aren’t so different after all.  ‘ shut up, murphy ’  a warning.  a growl.  guttural and low.  maybe she had turned out to be the basket-case, raised under the floor.  but she sure as hell didn’t need a COCKROACH to remind her about it.

         he must be a    fucking    psychic.     green hues watch the girl,   her chest heaving up and down,   up and down.   violently.    more violently than a sword in her hand.   he watches her hands curl into balls in front of her,    as if she were struggling with an internal war,   a war she couldn’t physically fight.    he can’t help the smirk upon her features.    his brows raise in amusement.

       he’s calculated.    a smart mouth needed a smart brain.    he knew that whatever he said could either be recieved with positivity,   or a punch in the face.    and although he thrived on chaos and violence,    he considered himself    changed.    maybe he changed when a rope was wrapped around his throat   -   not that she was there to witness such a thing.    soft was something he   didn’t   do,     but he knew a thing or two about loss.   he chews the inside of his cheek,    bottle in hand.    swig is taken,   tongue running over bottom lip to catch the residue that sat upon the skin there.     he’d seen hell,   there was no going back now.                                                   YOU LOOK BETTER  DEAD.

                    in the desert,   i saw a creature,   naked,   bestial,   who,   squatting upon the ground,   held his heart in his hands,   and ate of it.   i said,   '   is it good,  friend?   '   '   it is bitter    -    bitter,   '   he answered;  '     but i like it,   because it is bitter,   and because it is my heart.     '