[ only the last two paragraphs actually matter, i got kinda carried away ]

Edges and hard corners, sharp touch smoothed until all that is left is gentle and kind, hands finding easy purchase about gentle slope. There is nothing there to dissuade, soft calm within wide curve of gentle eyes that watch a world spiralling out of control about them, gentle voice drawn across tongue of soft pink. He is tones of dark, a shadow given the beat of a heart in chest proven hollow, filled with the light sound of laughter. Upon toes he walks, weight rolling forward until all that is drawn from such is a gentle sound – pitter patter, dance child for the masses, looking on as you cry.

It matters not the care of craft, hands so delicate in their want to shape porcelain until it seems light lingers in the cold chill of false skin. What is dead may never feel life once more, the beat of heart a mimic to calm and tease, flow of blood nothing more than an echo of past. And what of those eyes, wide and bright with tone of wonder yet shine they might it is tears that cast such a pretty sheen, smile seeking to curl as breath is caught in throat.

No one wishes to see the actor fail, watching the mask crumble away as the steps falter, pretty little dance nothing more than a farce they eat up with zeal. They jostle and laugh, enjoy a show put on for them to forget the tug of their own worries plaguing a mind that proves to be nothing more than an echo chamber, catching each thought and allowing it to fester, screaming when it ends. Distraction is all they want uncaring of who is hurt, of the child breaking upon the stage before their hungry eyes, seeking to cry when he never can, doubt and fear touching so frail a boy.

But what is left when it ends for good, when soft planes and gentle curves are given sharp touch, modelled after the knife point he walks upon.

Against the curve of teeth tongue presses, feels the jagged lines where the slot into one another incorrectly, never filling the spaces as they should. Body curled, nothing but slight weight held upon frame so small. Delicate is he, toothpick bones encased in skin, indents marring it. Groan expressed through lips pressed, line cut across features crafted from darkness, lids clenched as dreams play across uneasy mind. Within it curls, want that borders upon desire, hunger drawing jagged claws along lining of a stomach that clenches and rolls. Tongue escapes for brief moment, wetting lips before it is gone, departure marked by intake. Sharp is it, breaking apart as breath rises in sudden a rush, catching before – he is coughing, forced to roll onto his stomach.

Darkness crowds, shadows drawn across wooden floor and about figure close by, calmed in sleep. He knows well the light state of such slumber, slight groan of wood enough to jostle him, soft words of worry upon sharp tongue. Accustomed to it, learnt how to move upon toes rather than the balls of paws so small, drawing no sound as passage is made. But behind unsteady thought it is there, want to press upon board he knows would cry out with a creaky groan, wake him so the youth may find comfort in warmth, curl into fur a rich brown and pale cream.

Pushed aside, not allowed to linger for more then seconds. Slow pass of paw, movement restricted and between passage and him does attention move, seeking slight twitch, signs of waking. Triangle of light, silver spread within thin space before it is blotted out, small body escaping through break between door and frame. Soft snap of door finding its place, groan of boardwalk as he moves, first steps weary as pace is set. Upon the curve of head ears flatten, groan raising once more, tongue touching upon lower lip. Too loud is it, beat of hearts about him, slow in their tempo for sleep has taken many, allowed them some small peace but one is present, quick beat, tempo pressed to the curve of ribs. Drawn is he to it, feeling the worry in ragged heart, unease to chuckle that finally reaches him.

“Wha...?” Soft exhale, eyes finding his own, grown soft as they touch upon child. Small stature, gentle creature of soft angles and planes, but behind pressure lips teeth wait. No warning is given before tiny body is suddenly leaping, claws needles digging into throat, the press of teeth following behind. The last sound of the late night wanderer is a gurgle, rasping breath struggling as growl his own raises around mouthful of flesh, tearing with little hope. Long minutes pass, breath becoming louder until – a scream.

It is the last the Havener utters before their throat is open, ragged wound he latches onto, drawing upon the blood with vicious zeal. The eyes which look out upon the world are hard and cold, the child nothing but a shadow clinging to the deceased. Long minutes, passage of time he counts with the frantic beat of heart locked in his chest, faint whimper escaping when finally he releases the throat. Pushing down he is scrambling away, the first tears making tracks through crimson smeared about his face. “No, no, NO!” Sudden outcry, echoing through all with minds left unprotected in the depth of sleep, scream, ragged and broken, given to the gravel of damage, tearing through his own throat.

He never wanted to hurt anyone, why was it like this, why was he a monster.