prompt; paranoid
fandom; bastard
word count; 105
"That child... h-he's a demon!"
On a scale of one to ten, how harsh was it to call your own son a demon? Satanic spawn? The embodiment of the devil himself?
Paranoia.
The tears spilled down her pale cheeks, as the frightening fear of the presumably impossible dug fingers into her mentality, savagely shredding what little ounce of sanity she sustained.
The woman, more than anything, was ill. Her scrawny figure seeping through the oversized hospital gowns did nothing more than accentuate her malnutrition and deteriorating state. Ever since her pitiful arrival at the hospital, the deafening cries of suspicion consumed her.
She was paranoid.
