Wonder

The fourth installment of Bless! It's a long time coming :P

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Sarah quickly realizes that aside from feeding Blue, she has run out of ideas to keep him busy. Over her cleared plate, she turns to once again glance at the clock, only to find that it has only been ten minutes since she's last checked. Sighing, she stacks her utensils on her plate and wipes her mouth with her napkin as she studies the brown haired boy across her table. 

This is so strange, she muses, and smiles when he practices his grip on the fork and spoon. The rice topples from the edge of the spoon as he lifts it to his gaping mouth and he frowns as he realizes that he hasn't shoveled anything in.

Where did he come from and why does he not know how to use a spoon? She sips from her glass of water and raises her eyebrows, lightly tapping her temple with her knuckles. Of all questions, why do I have a boy with wings in my apartment? Of course, why do I keep forgetting he's not just a normal, clueless boy.

"Seh-rah," a voice chimes, interrupting her questioning thoughts, and she smiles, remembering when he had initially repeated her name as she was prepping the salad. Now he holds up his spoon, his fork clutched between his right fingers, forgotten as he had opted to concentrate solely on his left hand. 

She isn't quite sure what he is expecting so she sets her water glass down and claps her hands together and maintains her smile. "You did it, awesome," she exclaims and his excitement radiates throughout the kitchen. "Now eat it up before it falls," she adds, noticing the grains dangerously wavering as he holds up the silverware. 

The last spoonful swoops into his mouth and his pleasure flutters his wings underneath his jersey, appearing as if his shoulders are jostling from laughter. A golden glow momentarily encircles the crown of his head, but Sarah quickly shakes away the image with a toss of her blonde hair, blaming the suggestions of angels. 

So before her mind wanders any further, she collects Blue's rice speckled plate as he reaches for his glass of juice and gently tugs the fork and spoon from his hands so he can grip the glass easier. 

"Is there anything you'd like to do, Blue?" she asks, although hesitant. What do boys like to do?  she wonders, thinking back to the days when Sam would disappear without her to play kickball with the neighborhood boys.

"Seh-rah," Blue chimes again, holding up the empty glass for her, an expectant smile breaking his rosy cheeks. He glitters and she unconsciously relaxes under his ethereal glow. 

Stacking the plates and silverware so she can carry all the dishes, she gently pries the glass from his hands, thanking him softly with a congratulatory exclamation. Turning away from him with the dishes, she momentarily breathes a deep breath, finding that the same fluttering doubts and concerns that pop into her head immediately return when she isn't focused on Blue. If I just concentrate on Blue, and think of him as just a boy, maybe I can get through tonight, she hopes and loads her sink with suds.

Drying her hands on the dishtowel, she deems herself calm enough to face the boy kicking his feet as he waits at the table. Her eyes drift away from him before she gets caught up in his bright smile and innocent gaze. She desperately searches for something, anything, to occupy his attention. Considering she hasn't ever really gotten along with children, much less had them over, she can only decide on the one device that would capture any child's attention for hours. 

"Wanna watch T.V.?" she ponders, and he only cocks his head to the side with confusion flitting across his open eyes. 

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Poison Prince

JournalWord: He is poison.

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His first memory is war and starvation.

His next memory is of darkness and crying bodies.

He can hear the sobbing of other children beside him, quivering and howling in the pitch dark. He feels the walls behind him, pressing his hands against the rough stones of the cave. 

The howls and cries are so loud and don't stop for nights and days; time he can't decipher anymore.

 His tears of fear have dried from listening to the other children, and he can't find the heart to care about them. After fending for himself all his life on the merciless streets, scraping for days on rotten fruit and dried crumbs, this is an opportunity he must pull through with. 

They are feeding us, he reasons, and that is enough for him to ignore the cries and darkness. Just knowing that there is food to eat, albeit cold because he is squished far back by the walls, he can continue to bear with this hellish hole.

Slowly, his patience and perseverance prove worth when retching sounds start to intermingle with the screams and sobbing. The ground has become soft underneath him and he pushes away the thought of why. The bodies huddled and squished around him are losing their heat, so he pushes them away from him, without a care that they don't make a noise of protest.

The noises are silencing, and the sobbing cries are dwindling to whimpers that snuff out in due time. His food steadily becomes warmer by the time it gets to him until, finally, it comes served piping hot, straight from the oven to his waiting hands. 

He hasn't moved from his place from the back of the cave, eating whatever is given to him without a sound escaping his lips, even when the stomach pains ached for him to scream. The pain has long since passed, along with the cries, without any indication of it being present in the first place.  

He still eats, and the other children die beside him, spoons and bowls clattering around them, but he still eats until his spoon scrapes the bottom of his bowl.

When the first light peeks through the opening at the other end of the cave, a bellow hollers for any survivors to come get their meal. On shaky legs, he makes his first attempt to walk, ignoring the smell he has almost become accustomed to and the mounds of rustic clothes he has to walk over. 

He is met with surprised congratulations at the door and light, and when someone breaks through the crowd to rustle his long, dirty hair, their hand burns black. He passes by the scream and writhing body, walking through the silent path and heading for the table, towards the steaming pot. He sits on the bench, alone, and helps himself to the porridge, having not been fed in nearly two days. 

He has become the poison that he is fed.

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