All of the world soon will be gone

[staccato_cigarettes]

Thomas stepped silently through the Bryant household, breath held, eyes alert. He was excited. He didn't know why, but he was excited. He had never broken into anyone's house before-- least of all, the house of a family that adored him.

He crossed over floorboards and by some strange instinctive miracle, missed all of the squeaky ones. He ascended the stairs, ears strained in the silence.

The wood on Conor's door was worn smooth toward the middle, where the boy shouldered it open every day with his backpack. Thomas pressed his fingers against the spot and a tingle ran through him. For a moment, he swore he could feel desperation there-- could feel the way the grain was eroded away on those days where the high schooler came home so depressed that leaning against the door was his only means to stay upright for those few extra seconds.

The tumbler clicked quietly, though the sound was palpable to Thomas. He stepped in to the silent room and was greeted by the familiar sight of the youngest Bryant child strung up from the rafters. Unlike the first time, there was no residual jerking, no movement at all. Unlike the first time, Thomas did not find himself propelled across the room to free the boy with strength born of desperation. His heart pounded, but it was not out of fear or sadness, but unbridled joy.

He stepped closer to inspect Conor. The moonlight and shadows did much to disguise the discoloration in his face. His lips were very dark, full, and speckled with frothy saliva. His eyes were rolled back and glassy. The skin below the prominent bruising was milky white.

Thomas's eyes searched over him, memorizing the little details. He leaned in and placed a soft, lingering kiss on those cooling lips. He buried his hand in Conor's soft hair.

"I'm sorry, little bird," he murmured as he pulled away. It was strange, so strange. Tears streamed down his face, though other than this strange ocular leakage, he felt nothing. He was hollow inside, empty. Even that strange surge of joy had left him. He wasn't sure why he had ever cared if Conor lived or died. Whatever investment he'd had was gone now.

"What are you--" a voice-- soft, shocked, female. Thomas spun around to face the short blond-- a few years younger than him, maybe.

He crossed the room with the same speed he had used to rescue Conor all those months ago-- and violently shoved the girl down the stairs. She let out a piercing scream, her eyes huge as she tipped backward. She tumbled a bit. The moment she hit the landing, the screaming stopped.

Thomas stood at the top of the stairs and stared down at her mangled body. A manic grin spread over his face.