Page 224 of Satan's Spawn
36
BEX
Christmas day was…interesting to say the least.
The moment Crayton left I was ambushed with a ton of questions from Mom and Roman like:
Why does Crayton look like he’s in his mid-twenties?
Or fresh out of jail?
So angry?
What the hell is with that goat tattoo?
Did he really hurt Felix?
That one stung the most, because it took everything not to tell them the truth about the “nice boy” who was befriending me.
Yes, Crayton looks a little scary, but nothing is as scary as a monster hidden behind a handsome face.
Felix’s distorted smile invades my vision as I nervously tap a pen against a research paper due shortly after break.
I attempt to lock him back in his cage by squeezing my eyes closed, but unfortunately, unless Crayton’s presence is surrounding me like a steel fortress, my monster taunts me still.
It’s been over two months since anyone has seen or heard from Felix, and here I am living with him inside my head every day.
Would I ever tell Crayton about this? No, because that would result in him breaking his promise and actually killing the guy this time.
I scribble down one final note on underlying problems of crime rates in America before calling it quits for the day and tossing my notebook onto the bed.
Grabbing my school bag, I sieve through the contents, mostly neatly placed books and folders, a pink calculator, and other colorful writing utensils until I come across my English folder.
It’s the thickest of all my subjects, since I’m too chicken to risk losing one of my hard earned assignments in the war zone that has become our dorm room.
With time came more opportunities for HendrixandCrayton to leave their shit all over the place.
Even my pretty palm tree looks like a damn coat hanger.
It’s become overwhelming living in a pig sty, but I care too much for the pigs to send them to slaughter.
So, I’ve adapted to the chaos that is my best friend and my boyfriend.
As I’m flipping through an array of papers, my eyes catch on an unfamiliar one, only a few sheets before the back of the folder.
I tilt my head, knowing it can’t be the poem I’ve written at the beginning of the year because there’s no date or time completed jotted at the top of it.
Pulling out the mysterious paper, my eyes widen when I realize it’s actually one of Crayton’s.
His poem to be exact, which is the only assignment of his I didn’t complete at the time, also the one I could’ve sworn I shoved into Saint’s chest without bothering to read.
When I turn the first page, I come to find the complete opposite typed into a well formatted work of literature.
Ocean eyes ghost over skin like the darkness of night.
Pure artistry in the form of my broken pieces.
Secrets and lies.
