You are the night-time fear
He wants to shiver when the blade nudges his hair aside. Memories of touch and mortality overlap, knowing how sensitive, how dangerous a place the back of the neck is, and it's such a mismatch to what he feels now as the knife's tip rests against his skin again. He just kind of knows it's there—like a painting suddenly blurred and in grayscale, the nuances and details are missing.Some things lost, some things gained. She whispers death and he merely receives, little taps of the knife marking his weak spots there in the dark. There's so many ways to kill someone. So many ways to die.
And he has so much more to teach her. All of this—useless, if she can't even get close to her prey. Where will he reside, where can he be found?
Will she accept help, when the time comes?
"Sharp edge towards you," he murmurs as they play out murder in nearly a dozen different ways. A ritual, a dance: a litany of death.
You are the morning when it's clear
AAMU
