What happened to you?" she asked. "I got hit in the side." "With what?" "A knife.
Life is too frickin' crazy sometimes, it really is.... You never know what's going to happen, do you.
For f*ck's sake, get off the cross. Someone else needs the wood" ~Zsadist
When you were the son of evil, there was little you couldn't do, own, or kill, and yet her mortal self was an elusive trophy he could touch, but not put on his shelf. This made her rare. This made her precious. This made him...love her.
Besides, you think I'm not used to hurting? For me, it's home sweet home, my brother.
But looking at this closet, so nice and arranged with their crazy lives at rest among these carefully placed clothes and footwear, she felt good about where they were. "Normal" was not a bad things in this lunatic world; it really was. No matter how it happened to be defined.