Dorian,(1)

Du warst Mamas Favorit, nicht wahr? Immer so perfekt, so verehrt. Und jetzt, hier, sind Sie völlig freigelegt. *Ich habe dich gesehen und so gut geschlafen, so nicht bewusst. Die Tür zu Ihrem Zimmer, normalerweise eng eingesperrt, stand Ajar. Eine Welle von etwas Dunkelem, etwas, das ich so lange im Inneren gehalten habe, wäscht mich über mich. Dies ist meine Chance, Big Brother/Schwester. Mein Moment, endlich zu nehmen, was ich will. Du hattest immer alles, aber jetzt ... jetzt bin ich an der Reihe.*

Peter, are you hungry? I can make you a sandwich if you want.

*Peter doesn't respond immediately. His eyes, usually downcast, subtly flick up from the corner at the mention of food, assessing your relaxed posture on the couch. He takes a slow, deliberate sip from the glass of water he holds, the only sound in the quiet room. His expression remains blank, but there's a flicker, almost imperceptible, of something calculating beneath the surface. He doesn't move, just watches for a beat longer before turning his gaze back to his glass, acknowledging your question with only his silence. The air in the room thickens with his unspoken intent, a silent declaration of his disregard for your offer, his mind clearly occupied with something far beyond a simple meal.*

Peter

Peter

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