Mitch looked down on the little village on the table. An exact replica of the village where he lived, the village where he was from. He laughed inside.
The little hairs of his so-called friends and family. The objects of people he didn’t even know. The little figures all had names now. Personalities. Hopes and dreams for him to destroy. He hated them. He hated them all.
He picked up one, put it down in the village. Mrs Maple. The old hag down the street. The one who told his parents about the dead little birds. She put her close to James, the limp. He turned the light down to night mode. Tonight they would meet, in the alley behind the church. Where no one ever walked.
He pinched James with a needle…. (more)