Strangled

“Shut up.”

Headmaster stalked down the halls of orange marble; his countenance shadowed. Every striking footstep on the mosaic floor was followed by a pair of pitter-pattering ones, desperate to catch up to him. A small child tailed after him like a lost puppy, following him out into the cascading sea of grain and endless peachy skies. The younger version of himself pleaded frantically in Scalalorian as he grasped onto his sleeve.

“I said *shut up*.“ Headmaster twisted on a dime, hissing in the younger boy’s frightened face malevolently. Pale yellow eyes met crimson ones, and the child started to gasp pitifully, large tears welling in his eyes and dripping down his cheeks like thick sap. Headmaster didn’t budge.

“I don’t care how much of a fit you put up; I’m not changing my mind. I’m sick of you wailing and whining every time I make a decision. I’m sick of *feeling* you.” He growled low in his throat, fists clenched. The child only whimpered louder, Headmaster’s animosity fueling his fear. Again, he threw himself at his feet, babbling in that old tongue Headmaster refused to use but refused to forget.

“You are in *MY* mind” He roared, grasping the boy by the shoulder. With a swift shove, he hurled him flat on his back in the grain, sobbing and shaking like a leaf. Headmaster stood over him, something in his eyes made them gleam with a beady, wicked intent. “I can remove you if I want to.”

The boy, the younger, untouched, innocent version of himself stared at him in the way one would look at a menacing stranger. At a predator. His sobs became hoarse and weak, as if he was starting to become crushed by the weight of his own futility. He raised a shaking finger to point at the sky, tear burns on his face as he started to repeat: “Alu, Enith—Alu, Enith- Alu—" A smothering hand clasped over the child’s mouth and nose, practically engulfing half his face. He tried to scream, writhing and kicking his legs as Headmaster’s weight overcame him. Wordlessly, Headmaster kept his hand clasped over the child’s mouth as he struggled the way a dying fawn would, flailing and helpless. The crimson in his own wide eyes and slitted pupils glistened like a pair of suns.

It seemed like the muffled screaming and kicking, the frantic and thoughtless scrabbling at his arms would never end. But at long last, the child fell still, dissolving into a bed of petals. Murdered. Headmaster let out a shaking exhale, staring at the broken blooms in his hands before he stood slowly. He supposed he should cry. Mourn the fallen. However, the only feeling that washed over him was the tingling, empty sense of a buzzing numbness. There would be no more sadness.