You sat alone in the office, staring at the girl. She was really pretty. She had some of her mother's features, like her blue eyes and thin lips, but her hair and nose must have been from her father.
You grabbed a lock of her hair and began twirling it. "I imagined you with blonde hair," you admitted. She nodded, causing you to drop the lock. "I've always wanted blonde hair, but mom won't let me." You nodded.
"Your mommy doesn't like me very much," you said. She shook her head. "Mom doesn't like that we're so close in age. She thinks that you could have a bad influence on me, but she sees some good in you." You thought of Dobkins. You took care of him, but he died. Plus, all of the good you had left was dead.
"She told me you had a boyfriend, but you seem kind of young," you said, raising an eyebrow. She rolled her eyes. "It wasn't an actual boyfriend, and I'm sixteen." You cocked your head to the side. "That's about three years younger than me."
She stared at your face. You noticed it wasn't your eyes, it was your cheek. You put your hand up to cover the scar that has left so many bad memories. "What happened?" She asked. You hesitated before looking back to her. "Theo Galavan tried to kill me."
Harleen looked up to you with a hopeful expression. "Why do you kill people?" She asked. You inhaled a sharp breath. She stared at you as you thought of the ways to answer.
"Sometimes, people have different hobbies they like to do. What do you like to do?" You asked. "Gymnastics," she said without a moments hesitation. "You like to flip, your mom likes to help people, I like to kill people. Everybody's different."
"I've heard my mom talk about you. She said that you kill because you're different," she revealed. You leaned in and smirked. "Everybody's different. Some people just wear it better, and, let me tell you, I wear it pretty damn good."
"That boy you were always with, Jerome, he was like you, too. I liked him, he seemed nice," she confessed. You leaned back with a raised eyebrow. "Don't go around sayin' stuff like that, Harls. Somebody might throw ya in here with me and the rest of the loonies. I may be nice, but the others aren't. Do you know what cannabilism is?"
She looked up to you with confusion. You smirked. "Exactly. People in here aren't your friends. They want to eat you. Literally. So, puddin', do yourself a favor, and stay out."