“When I was in foster care, there was an old lady who used to stop by the home once a month and read us some books. The Wingless Harpy was one of my favourites,” I admitted then inched closer to her. “Can I tell you a secret?” I breathed and she nodded, her fingers moving to press to my chest and graze up to my neck. “I can’t read or write, kitten. No one ever taught me to. I’ve picked up a few things here and there to get by, but put a book under my nose and it’s all just swirls on the paper. I always liked the idea of leaving messages in blood on the walls once I killed though, so I get my
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i am so fucking sad
