Re: Quiet Home: Misha & Oliver
Misha smiled a real vacuous smile, as if dressing pretty was real important on some cellular level. But, truth be told, he was glad to see the dark-haired boy sitting up and biting at him some. He heard contradiction in the boy's voice, and he thought that real telling. Folks that defended things they, personally, thought were wrong, them folks were always interesting souls. Misha, he liked souls. It might seem like he didn't, on account of leaving Heaven and quitting like he had, but he liked souls too much. That was the whole damn problem up in Heaven, and he couldn't count the number of angels that went yearning for things she weren't meant to yearn for. But it wasn't their fault. God put pretty things right under their noses constant, then said those pretty things couldn't be had for any number of songs. "You're faded." That was Misha's real cryptic reply.
The boy asked what being bad had to do with it, and now wasn't that interesting as locusts in winter? Humans, they liked to absolve themselves, and one of the best ways was convincing themselves folks deserved bad things happening. It made terrible things easier to swallow, shoving away compassion, but the boy was sitting there fussed over a demon-soul. It was real interesting, and Misha thought while the therapist went on about wasn't a thing wrong with being fussed over watching someone die rotten.
But, Misha, he interrupted.
"You upset on account of her being dead, or you upset on account of you watching her be dead? You can say it's both, but I'm asking which is the main thing messing with your noggin. Seeing someone's brains splatter, or is it compassion?" Misha wasn't slouching now. He'd sat himself forward, elbows to his knees and hands gripped loose between. His impossibly blue eyes were bright as gemstones.