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“I don’t really mind when they call us a psycho,” the white-haired boy murmured in the dark, to violet eyes across the room. “You know why?”
“I’ve got a feeling, kid,” the bandaged warrior replied. “Fill me in.”
He smiled, brightly but vaguely, gaze still unfocused somewhere above his knees. “It’s the word root,” his voice glowed. “Greek. ‘Psykhe.’ It means soul. I know that’s not what they’re getting at, there’s a lot of mutation in the word history, but…”
The boy looked up then, visage bright as sunlight scattered across the ocean. “I like it. It’s all about the spirit, the mind, both. Deep down stuff. The real stuff, that burns down in your bones like harp strings. Everything that turns the dark night of the soul into the lightshow of the century. Things like…” he paused, softly. “…Like you.”
The violet one smiled at that, a genuine spontaneous thing, her eyes like neon turned down low.
“Kind of makes the bad days worth it, huh?” she mused.
The boy laughed at that, just as suddenly, just as sincerely.
“Kind of?” His voice was a cathedral bell. “Laurie. With you, there are no bad days.”
She grinned at that, widely. “Psycho.”
“That’s the point!”
By Jewel Lightraye URL on 09.09.2015
a division of Identity Crisis, Inc.