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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