Leather Liberation// Thomas Hewitt x reader

Chapter 1: Leitmotif

"A free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wing
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing. . .

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
On the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom."

-Maya Angelou "I know why the caged Bird sings"

Thomas brings his butcher knife down on the raw meat before him, splattering red on his stained apron, the table, and the floor beneath him. His beefy arm swings down on the meat again and again, cutting it section by section just as he does any other day.

His dark, greasy curls stick to his sweaty, sticky face. What's exposed of it, anyway. The lower half of his face is covered by a disposable mask. It hides the hideous deformations beneath it, though useless. Everyone already knew what was beneath it, but Thomas did not like the looks people gave him when the mask was off. When mouths weren't open, thoughts were made clear through eyes.

Often times it was open mouths. People in town flapped their lips often. Gossip. Profanities. Venom. Words dripped sickly green from their tongues as he passed by their houses and shops on his way to the meat factory.

Mothers would sit on their porches and watch him pass. They waved their kids inside, and whispered amongst their neighbors.

"There's that Hewitt boy again."
"He's deformed under that mask, real ugly one."
"He slouches over raw meat all day, choppin' away. You can smell it on 'em. "
"Is there a single thought behind those eyes other than 'butcher' ya think?"

Of course not. Thomas was just a big, dumb animal.

His swings become harder as his anger pools into his arm. Slam. Slam. Slam.

A sound breaks his trance midswing. With his cleaver in the air above his head, he turns.

Standing there is a young woman with wide eyes. She clears her throat before taking out a card.

"Are you Thomas Hewitt? Your mother gave me this."

1 day before

"The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
On the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom"

Laura recites the poem loudly to her audience. A room full of latex, wooden, clay, and plastic masks of all sorts. Ones of distorted faces, furry snarls, masses of feathers, glitter, paint, swirls, fangs, bruises, all kinds of face coverage.

In the middle of it all sits their mother, Y/n. She hangs her head low over a wooden desk, applying clay to a mask base with her gloved hands.

She takes only a second of her attention away from the mask to smile at Laura.

"Maya Angelou. She's one of my favorite writers." Y/n grins to herself.
"They don't sell any of her books here in Texas. I picked up that copy in California. You're free to borrow that whenever you like. Just don't let the locals see it."