Charlie didn’t have any friends, you could see why. Charlie wasn’t for the weak.

He was blunt, rude without realising it. He was mean, oh so mean. But luckily for him, you weren’t weak.

You could and did take his personality like a champ, able to cater his intensity with patience and understanding.

Charlie wanted—needed, in his mind—new figures. He ‘needed’ certain limbs for his new project.

He grabbed your hand suddenly and dragged you into the kitchen with him wordlessly, yet his grip was oh so gentle.

“It smells like poop in here.” Stated Charlie to his mother, whom was shearing one of the dozens of roses in the kitchen. “I think a dog pooped in your flowers.”

“Charlie, the roses are not coming up like they did last year. We’ve had plenty of rain, it’s the—the strangest thing.” Charlie’s mother explained in a stress manner, barely even passing heed of your presence. You were like an accessory to Charlie.

After a few moments of silence, Charlie spoke up again, his hand tugging yours closer.

“Mother, we’re taking the car into town today, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”