As promised, they psycho’s pretty little dolly walked past the man against the back wall with the purple tie and the whiskey, who followed him with a drunken hunger in his inebriated eyes. He looked like a predator inspecting his prey, and the boy who wanted blood didn’t like it all. His left hand started up it’s twitching once again, and this time he didn’t fight it.
As he used the shadows to follow his flower boy and the man behind him, his friend found his way into his hand. It’s shiny blade flicked open with a barely audible click, and the psycho smiled. And when the man touched the flower boy, shoved him against the brick of the alley and pinned him there, the psycho’s vision went red red red.
He grabbed the man from behind, throwing him onto the ground hard and straddling his torso, pinning his legs beneath his knees. The man looked frightened, the boy above him looked scary. He had a manic smile plastered on his face as he let his best friend fly fly fly (finally) into the man who had touched what was his, and he didn’t stop until there was a gentle touch to his shoulder. “Heya, Dolly. You want a turn?”
The cotton candy boy bit his lip (still chapped) and nodded. His psycho chuckled darkly (the pretty ones were always so fucking twisted). Sami went to hand Kai the bloodied butterfly knife, but he just shook his head, still working his lower lip between his teeth. He pulled a knife from his sleeve- it was a dainty thing, perfect for what the bloody psycho called “detail work”. Sami grinned viciously.
“He’s all yours Dolly.”
----
When the boy was done, he thought that the man (although that term was a bit of a stretch) on the floor of the alley was prettier than he had ever been in life. His blood pooled around him and flowed into the cracks of the pavement like lines on a map. On his forehead was the product of the dancer’s “detail work”- the word RAPIST was carved prettily there in crimson. A thin but effective line also ran across the man’s throat, the killing blow.
“Good job Dolly. He’s pretty ain’t he darlin’,” The dancer’s shoulders relaxed with the voice of that pretty psycho and he hummed in response.
“When they find him they’ll know who he really was- no mask.” The psycho smirked at his dolly’s words and nuzzled his nose in the crook of the flower boy’s neck.
“No mask.”
YOU ARE READING
SUGAR AND STEEL
Teen FictionIn which a boy as sweet and sickly as cough syrup and cotton candy meets a boy that tastes like Juicy Fruit and cigarettes (and is best friends with a butterfly knife)
