Tribulation //RED QUEEN FANFICTION

9:Dirt

Whenever he stares at the words on the screen of his phone or the laptop, there's one part anger and two parts lies spreading in front of him.

He always knew people can be true monsters, no claws or spikes required. There's the worst of the worst bottling in the small cone of interests.

There's a lot of nasty stuff about Barrow or Farley. Even some sort of mugshots from their faces, hair dirty and smeared with ashes and blood.

Mostly Barrow though, because the girl is born and raised in this city and it makes digging up dirt much easier. And also she's in the sights of another person altogether.

Oh, pretty boy, Thomas thinks, repeating the disappointment experience tour cause it's so much fun.

He can imagine the voice perfectly fine when he reads the words. They are crafted with the same careful intention as the flattery the night they broke things once and for all. They are rational and diplomatic, plugging a string and poking just right.

That's when he knows he's looked at too many things and turns down the internet for the rest of the night to catch at least some sleep.

It's not like he sleeps much anyway, not at night at least. Once upon a time, mere weeks ago he stayed up at night to be there for someone he loved. Now he stays up because he likes to be alone. He was never much of a crowd person, sure he went somewhere like concerts and stuff, but mostly because other people wanted or just to spite and show that he would. Younger Thomas was an idiot. Well, he still is an idiot. At least he knows it now.

There are two or three hours in the early morning, with the sun still down, when the world seems to stand still. It's like everyone takes a last deep breath, bracing themselves for another cruel business day.

Sometimes all Thomas does is sit on the tiny windowsill, little squashed, long limbs pulled up and crossed to fit.

He doesn't listen to music. He doesn't do a dramatic smoke in the dark. He just sits and stares, sorting through his head. Because despite whatever daylight Thomas says or how he smiles, there's a hole in his chest and it's hurting.

On some rare occasions, he's outside, tagging along with the people that use their spray bottles to leave messages and pictures over the city.

But those guys and gals are fast and climbing like monkeys. They are nice enough, and they clearly have some respect because they like his works. He rarely sees a face behind a scarf pulled over a nose or a hood deep in a face, but he knows them by now. You remember the way someone moves, especially when that's all you really can rely on. They are like a flock of crows, all dressed black, flying over roofs and down alleys.

He likes the way the wind flows around their heads and the city pulses when they run. He likes the feeling of being alive. But he's still not sure he could do it every night. He is only weight on their ankles.

"Hey Inky, " one of the says, because of the flames and the steel that blink through whenever his sleeves get pushed up a little. For a second Thomas sees a small stripe of dark skin and hair when his hood is pushed back. "Need to be careful now. Tower territory isn't safe since that night."

"Yeah, I know. Was on the streets." He says, checking his boot. Thomas has the agile gracefulness of a giraffe sliding over ice most times. Another reason he isn't tagging along too often. Not that he couldn't run or climb. Street rat days still stick, but he's gotten lazier since he can spend his day in bed. And he just doesn't look parcoury or cool while doing it. Just like the rabbit he is he dashes away.

"And got out? Had a friend, still in prison."

"Sucks," Thomas answers remembering the stench and the full cell.