christian { seven } finished

two circles overlapping, he meets in the middle space. bloodlines cross over each-other, black and red, and there he is again in the smudge of brown. look closely at photographs, the boy standing to the side. half here, half not. a proud shame, a contradiction, he finds himself caught in the crossfires of two feuding families and lets the bullets try and puncture his skin. sometimes they win. 

inside of him it lurks, he feels it. darkness. those same two circles drawn in blood - one red, the other white. he meets where the lines on his family tree intersect as a stain upon the once-pure surface of his family's life, an ink blot scribbled hastily on his birth records.

a thief, he stole away his father's marriage from the moment of conception and carried that trait throughout his life as a burden breaking his back. chris, the bastard boy. chris, the son of lies. chris, the family shame. his father threw away with those comments and loved him all the same. still, a thief he became - and then, after a while, worse.

"christian'll do it," they jive in to conversation, "he knows just how to slice em' right." christian, the stealer of voices, holds them captive at the tip of his knife and slices out their tongues, slices their fingers off - can't tell, won't tell. christian'll do it right, because he's a little twisted deep down. christian'll black it out, because he's got that devil blood in his veins. christian'll do it, because if the bastard gets caught people will keep their mouths shut, save them getting their own tongues stolen at the hands of another deadlier enemy. christian'll do it, because he was born to turn their own bloody crimes against them and watch them drink their own black-blooded poison.