#emptyygun

    “Jesus, Peter, you hit him too hard,” she informs her leader. At the home’s house party, the cult of misfit teens had decided to take the group of invitees hostage. The host of the party was somewhere bleeding out in a bathtub upstairs while the rest of the party goers were tied up in various rooms of the house. Peter adjusted his skeleton mask and dismissed her comment with a flippant wave. “Stay here while I get the hammers, okay?” Roxanne didn’t respond. She simply knelt beside the boy, brushing the blood-caked bangs from his forehead. Peter huffed. “OKAY?!” Roxanne’s head snapped up. “Alright! Just go get the hammer!”

               ( there’s a nervous e d g e to his voice; better he drop food on himself than someone notice he has a bloody tail )

   “You’re not a monster,” she tells him. Lydia is crouched before him, a bloody hammer in one hand, a cigarette in the other. “You’re a tragic deity. It’s poetic.” He was proving to be a better muse than she had hoped. Lydia nods gently to the corpse in the far corner of the basement. “...Now.” Her voice grew low, raspy. “Aren’tcha gonna go EAT?”

              ❝ Look how tall I got!                  See! See! I’m gonna                  be as tall as a tree                  one day! See!  ❞

                ❝ You should dance with me. ❞