three strikes /// blitz. [ tom ]

S C A R L E T T

Childsplay.

I run laps around these kids, steel and swords a playground in my dreams come to life. They shy and wince at the colour scarlet with its silver linings and I paint the room red. Learning to kill is a distant memory and the fear of doing so nothing but dust. 

Nobody important is looking for fault lines underneath our skin sitting atop of the training center. They're looking for lack of failure and I bleed success. Evaluating eyes up top and glances of fear from the other children below, I grin and flash mad eyes right back. It's a nice change from the disappointment in my mother's eyes.

Elevated on a pedestal of arrogance and gluttony, I drink in their fear and spit it back in their faces and wipe streaks of fake blood off of my face with the back of my hand like it's nothing. And it is nothing. Nothing compared to the real thing.

And then like a child I am borrrrrred - the word slurring in my mind with time passing, all my tricks spilled from my sleeves, time ticking slowly like a dying heartbeat. Sluggishly swinging metal around with a lack of control, I point the tip of my knife at the nearest piece of entertainment and aim - 

"Hey there gorgeous."

Strike 1.

can you hold me down for one night

like i've got three strikes?