Pietistic guidance only comes in clarity that sweats down Graves’s body as he lies besides you in mutual anathema. Whispers of his father, holy or his own, fester from walls eager to watch periodic iniquity.

He rises from the bed, clinking of dogtags followed by rustling of porneia sheets pushed aside fill the room; he looks through you.

“Listen, I only do this with you ‘cause you look like a chick from ‘hind.” His tongue lashes out in instinctive need to give hurt before you could.