f o r t y - o n e.
[In the aftermath of a therapy session, Famine was restless. Irritated from having to spill about his childhood. As if she could pinpoint something out of his past experiences, something in his upbringing that had brought him to his breaking point? He'd meant for her to know nothing about his past life, how nothing in any mortal life had any bearing on what he'd done. It was about being a Horseman, not an anti-social child whose mother was afraid of him, whose father rarely spoke to him.
But then she had brought up the possibility of alternative mental illnesses, of having something passed down to him that might have affected him. This wasn't depression. Famine could tell from the look on his Amazon of a shrink's face that she couldn't quite determine what it was that was wrong with him. No shit she couldn't. The very second 'borderline personality disorder' left her lips, he stopped listening.
She'd ship him off to a loony bin at this rate. The thought of being locked away didn't terrify him so much as it pissed him off. Crazy little Jack Skinner, whatever would they do with him? We'll just stick you in a mental hospital, pump you full of pills and even more of your favorite therapy, and see if that will make you all better. Briefly he imagined his hand around the woman's throat, his fingers crushing her airpipe.
He needed release, had to bring himself back to a place where he felt like a Horseman, felt like he wasn't in so many pieces he couldn't be put back together again. Damaged goods was what he was, and only one person came to mind when it came to wondering who to drain of all their senses.]
Do padded cells come in any other color than white?
[Filter: Samael]
Tomorrow night, your place. Don't make plans.