Blackrosewriter

Discipline Absently he brushed at the small scars on the back of his hand. Four small, perfect circles in the pattern of the tines of a fork; faded white and nearly invisible with time. The cost of manners, he supposed as he waited for her to leave the cemetery. His father had always been so intent on manners and discipline. A small smile formed on his lips as he thought that, cold and predatorily hungry. He had learned the lessons very well and with only those four inconsequential scars as the price. Anything else would never be seen, his father had been skilled and made sure that the lessons were swift and brutal and never known about.