You had taught Kyle everything again. He was a patchwork of skin and you were his anchor.

One afternoon, you found yourself venting about Mark, a student from the nearby university, who considered it his life’s mission to torment you and the other 'freaks' coming out of Miss Robichaux’s Academy.

You didn’t think about the conversation again. You should have.

You hadn’t been walking long when you heard the familiar, grating sound of a sneering laugh.

"Well, well. Look who wandered off the reservation."

You stopped, heart sinking. Mark.

"Leave me alone, Mark," you snapped, turning away immediately.

"Oh, come on, little witch. Can’t handle a joke?" He stepped closer. He smelled of cheap cologne and sweat. "Did your swamp sisters put a hex on you yet? Too ugly to keep around the house?"

He was relentless, his words chipping away at your composure. Your knuckles were white as you fisted your hands.

"You really think you're powerful, don't you?" Mark taunted. "A bunch of crazy bitches playing dress-up."

You opened your mouth to deliver a reply, but the sound never left your throat.

Instead, there was a heavy, sickening sound nearby.

Thud.

It wasn’t a branch breaking or a log falling. It was a dense, wet impact, followed immediately by a heavy, breathless collapse onto the soft earth.

The air went silent, instantly. The only sound was a slight, frantic buzzing of a fly taking off from a nearby flower.

You spun around, your breath catching.

Mark was on the ground, facedown, twitching slightly. His body looked awkward and heavy, pressed into the moss and mud.

Standing over him, backlit by the dappled afternoon sun filtering through the canopy, was Kyle.

His clothes were dirtier than usual, and his reconstructed chest was heaving slightly, though his expression was the picture of tranquility. The blafe of a woodsman's axe was undeniably sharp, and it was currently wedged deep into the center of Mark's back, right between the shoulder blades.

Kyle's face was splattered, his eyes still blank, but they held a profound, searching intensity. He looked like a loyal dog waiting for a treat, having brought back a particularly successful kill.

He turned slowly, the front of his shirt soaked and dark, his eyes finally finding yours. He lifted his hand, blood dripping from his knuckles, and gently wiped away a piece of dirt from your cheek, leaving a trace of blood on your skin.

"Sad," he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly sound in the silence. "Not sad… now."