[DB] The Boy with Red Hair

I know, I know. I disappeared for a while, again. Oh well.


The boy sits. The boy with the red hair.
He sits and thinks of the bodies in his big brown wooden wardrobes, dreams of them.
He looks around at where he is and dreams on. He dreams further of the bodies, pieces of them missing, the other pieces in other places. The blood, the entrails. The feeling of the still warm insides of people covering his hands.
He stands up, and his attention shifts. The chair, where the people sit.
Where he makes them sit, he thinks. He smiles, not cruelly.
That was the place where he played with them before… before… before the wardrobe.
His attention shifts to the here and now, and he sees the other boy, around his age. He has brown hair.
The brown was unnerving. Or hurt his eyes. Not like the brown of the wardrobe. That brown was nice. This brown was sandy. Rough.
Not like his hair. His hair was beautiful. Red.
He runs his hands through his hair. It was smooth, too, and soft.
That boy’s hair would be just as rough as it looked. Sharp, even.
It needed to be red. Like his!
But he needs another body, too, though. He is running out. That would be fine.
He is standing above the other boy, now. He runs his hands through the boy’s hair.
It was rough.
“You need red hair,” says the boy to the other.
The other looks up at him with big, silent eyes.
The boy runs his hand through the other’s hair. The big, silent eyes still look.
The boy runs his hand through the other’s hair, again. Rougher. Longer.
More violently. He keeps tousling the hair. The hair is rough and sharp and cut his hands but he doesn’t stop.
The other cries out in pain and tries to pull away, but the boy is quick and grabs him and keeps throwing his hair about. The skin of the head wears away and blood pours. The hot stickiness clings to everything, and the hair is drowned in it, it pours over the head and eyes and mouth of the boy. He cries out more, but the boy’s hold on him is firm.
The pain that has kept building stabs the other in the heart and he falls limp.
His hands still woven in the other’s hair, he tightens his grip and takes the boy by the hair.


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