Ansel Khiev [D6] [CBD #3]

I have a killer in my pocket.

He was iron but I've always been porcelain, now he's paper and I'm still fragile. I'm holding him, in the palm of my hand like he's a forbidden fruit but so carefully as to not bend his ears and scuff the surface. If mother saw me, she would wail and call him cunt and snatch him from my fingertips and watch him burn in the fireplace. He's a forbidden fruit but I've always been one for crossing divine boundaries.

Besides, I'm his spitting image.

Green eyes sitting in hollow sockets and searching the room in wanderlust and curiosity. We both always wanted to discover the world. I'm just a 5'10, slender thinker, sweeping and wandering through my own mind. A shiver runs down my spine when I feel his phantom touch, his hands ruffling my dark short hair and and remember what his lips felt like against my forehead when he tucked me into bed and told me that creepy monsters didn't exist, it's scientifically impossible.

I'm a quiet type, a recluse; call me a mindsweeper. Thinking through concepts and chains of analyse and refusing to share with the world. I don't have many friends; I don't need them.

Everyone called him a killer, or a butcher. Cutting his victims limb from limb in roughly equal pieces and burying them underground, thinking sins couldn't be dug up from underground by angels in white suits - holding a knife and cleaver in his hands made him feel like a god, not a temptation.

He was no god when they hung him when I was sixteen.

I used to proudly call him doctor but now everyone calls him a psychopath and wonders if another rotten apple will fall from the tree.