The Next Morning

I held the smaller being closer, readjusting his position slightly in my arms. He tightened his arms around my neck, giggling slightly. I felt a finger poke at one of the many tendrils curled tightly against my back, and I loosened the tip, letting it snake into his hand and curl up his arm over his sleeve gently. His fingers curled around the appendage as he sighed, resting his head against my shoulder.

It wasn't long till he was giggling softly again. I felt his head shift and he lightly nipped at my neck.

"Jeff..." I said quietly as I continued to walk. He simply giggled again, hiding his face and squeezing the tendril. I sighed, knowing he wouldn't be this happy in the morning. I know I won't either. A hungover Jeff was a grumpy Jeff.

The homocidal 18 year old didn't enjoy alcohol, to be honest. It triggers his PTSD, but sometimes his depression gets to him and he stocks up on a bottle or two of Skyy Vodka on his way out of a victim's house. Sometimes being very rare, and he always regrets it.

And I'm always there for him to cling to and protect him from self-harm the next morning. I'm there for him to wake up to, in the coldest, darkest part of the forest I can find. I'm prepared for a day full of grumpy, sleepy Jeff, and wiping the tears away.