used blades, fingernails and fangs to peel
skin, shredding it red and lapping avidly at the welling blood. He’s
hours to tease screams from a throat until they become murmurs of tired
He’s stared, smiling, into dying eyes and watched them empty.
The blunt, soft pencil snaps between his hands and the thick paper crumples.
And Wesley’s likeness, all vulnerable mouth and anxious eyes, limned and lampooned, joins the flutter and clutter of sketches on the floor.>
It’s the artist in him.
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