his eyes were white and glossy as he turned to look at me, the corners slanted so sharply as if they were filed down like daggers. he was sharp all over, his shoulders poking up through his baggy shirt, his hands frail and bony with nails cut into claws, his canines jutting out of his mouth over his bottom lip and curling inwards to a point. even his hair stuck out at the top of his head like spikes, forming into wisps as they moved down his neck, curling over his skin, which now was closer to white than any other colour. white to match his eyes, white as the static he left in my stomach the day we last met, white as the void the edges of the room dissipated into, white like the purity of birth. irony, i assume, was the goal of whatever god created him, as the man in front of me was a product of anything but purity. he knew what he'd done, and i hoped he wasn't sorry for it.
i looked down at my hands to avert his gaze, and i didn't recognise them.
"if you look at me like that again," i spoke as coldly as i could, "i'll snap your fucking neck."
"no you won't."
YOU ARE READING
various ramblings
De Todoa collection of times i put words together; very experimental stuff. don't expect coherency.
