04-04-2022, 08:15 AM
Repeat a lie enough, and it becomes the truth. Besides – the feeling it invoked was far more important than the accuracy. Little, little, little, surrounded by men bigger than he would ever be. If he couldn’t cut him lower at the knees, then there were other ways.
Chris watched Malachi’s face intently for the first time. Didn’t take a whole lot to press a cigar out on a surface, after all. That the surface happened to be stitches and cloth and then fragile skin? Delightful, but secondary. There it was. That little flinch that meant he’d won.
He crinkled his nose at Malachi’s glare as though he were in on the joke, rather than the butt of it.
As expected, he did nothing. What could he do? There was no Lyle to insist his little orphan be left in one respectable piece. No Lyle to cower behind in the shadows, or make excuses for him that no one believed but everyone swallowed anyway because it was Lyle. The corpse was barely cold – what better time to relish in this nothing’s further fall from grace?
Zechariah, surprise surprise, was making one-sided conversation with Levi’s wife, while Levi butted in to talk about this holiday or that restaurant they had been to before his father had-- you know. Zechariah’s gaze flicked to them briefly before pretending he never saw them come in.
Chris smirked, but tucked it away once he saw the immaculately made-up widow. He slowed his step. Leaned his head back to whisper only two words back to his ‘little,’ looming shadow:
“Show me.”
Then, he was headed to Mrs. Brennan with the most carefully practiced forlorn look.
“Mrs. Brennan,” he intoned. “I am so sorry for your loss. Barely older than my father. He should be by later to pay respects, by the way.”
He wouldn’t be. That’s why he sent Chris. As far as his father was concerned, she’d forget he was even absent as soon as he sent the condolence chocolates. Such techniques had worked on his children, after all.
Chris watched Malachi’s face intently for the first time. Didn’t take a whole lot to press a cigar out on a surface, after all. That the surface happened to be stitches and cloth and then fragile skin? Delightful, but secondary. There it was. That little flinch that meant he’d won.
He crinkled his nose at Malachi’s glare as though he were in on the joke, rather than the butt of it.
As expected, he did nothing. What could he do? There was no Lyle to insist his little orphan be left in one respectable piece. No Lyle to cower behind in the shadows, or make excuses for him that no one believed but everyone swallowed anyway because it was Lyle. The corpse was barely cold – what better time to relish in this nothing’s further fall from grace?
Zechariah, surprise surprise, was making one-sided conversation with Levi’s wife, while Levi butted in to talk about this holiday or that restaurant they had been to before his father had-- you know. Zechariah’s gaze flicked to them briefly before pretending he never saw them come in.
Chris smirked, but tucked it away once he saw the immaculately made-up widow. He slowed his step. Leaned his head back to whisper only two words back to his ‘little,’ looming shadow:
“Show me.”
Then, he was headed to Mrs. Brennan with the most carefully practiced forlorn look.
“Mrs. Brennan,” he intoned. “I am so sorry for your loss. Barely older than my father. He should be by later to pay respects, by the way.”
He wouldn’t be. That’s why he sent Chris. As far as his father was concerned, she’d forget he was even absent as soon as he sent the condolence chocolates. Such techniques had worked on his children, after all.
