The chains on him try to restrict his movements. They try to hold him back, desperate little things. But he is the sort of monster such chains are not made for. They jangle, one hundred little church bells chiming for the life of little Red.
He notices not the bite nor blood. It drips down unheeded. So too does it flow from his wrists, the needles hidden inside each cuff whining under the force of his movements. But they don't inject.
"Made a motherfucking mistake most grievous, you up and have," He hisses at her. "GAVE YOUR KIND CHANCES. And each one put to waste. PUT TO MOTHERFUCKING WASTE WAS EACH CHANCE BY YOUR DISEASED PANFRACTURED KIND. You know what happened to them all, all that motherfucking red? THE LAST ONE OF RED DIED A BROKEN TROLL. Pieces scattered. WINGS TORN THE FUCK OFF HIS BACK. The second hung by her own naivete, her own damn noose. AND THE FIRST, SISTER, DO YOU KNOW WHAT BECAME OF THE MOTHERFUCKING FIRST? Burned, publicly, shackles bright as the sin done. SO TELL HIM, WHAT THE MOTHERFUCK SHALL COME OF YOU? You can choose. HE'S FEELING GENEROUS!"
He slams her back against the wall, holding her down with an oversized hand. There's a fever behind his eyes. But he doesn't crush her. Something keeps him from doing so. He's getting real tired of somethings what can't be explained. Something shaped like ghosts, the color of yellow, the sound of bones breaking, the feeling of gratitude and barely hanging turned to sudden despair and slipping. A ghost he shakes off. She's pinned, he's growling, he's waiting for some sort of response, as if he had a single shred of patience in his body. As if he needs her permission.
His mind slips like a cracked dam. She could throw anything there in the ravine and the water would take it.
no subject
He notices not the bite nor blood. It drips down unheeded. So too does it flow from his wrists, the needles hidden inside each cuff whining under the force of his movements. But they don't inject.
"Made a motherfucking mistake most grievous, you up and have," He hisses at her. "GAVE YOUR KIND CHANCES. And each one put to waste. PUT TO MOTHERFUCKING WASTE WAS EACH CHANCE BY YOUR DISEASED PANFRACTURED KIND. You know what happened to them all, all that motherfucking red? THE LAST ONE OF RED DIED A BROKEN TROLL. Pieces scattered. WINGS TORN THE FUCK OFF HIS BACK. The second hung by her own naivete, her own damn noose. AND THE FIRST, SISTER, DO YOU KNOW WHAT BECAME OF THE MOTHERFUCKING FIRST? Burned, publicly, shackles bright as the sin done. SO TELL HIM, WHAT THE MOTHERFUCK SHALL COME OF YOU? You can choose. HE'S FEELING GENEROUS!"
He slams her back against the wall, holding her down with an oversized hand. There's a fever behind his eyes. But he doesn't crush her. Something keeps him from doing so. He's getting real tired of somethings what can't be explained. Something shaped like ghosts, the color of yellow, the sound of bones breaking, the feeling of gratitude and barely hanging turned to sudden despair and slipping. A ghost he shakes off. She's pinned, he's growling, he's waiting for some sort of response, as if he had a single shred of patience in his body. As if he needs her permission.
His mind slips like a cracked dam. She could throw anything there in the ravine and the water would take it.