Sketched in Red

He’s used blades, fingernails and fangs to peel back skin, shredding it red and lapping avidly at the welling blood. He’s taken hours to tease screams from a throat until they become murmurs of tired agony. He’s stared, smiling, into dying eyes and watched them empty.

And he’s never been as cruel as he is now. 

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. 

Angel’s not always kind.

It’s the artist in him.

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