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He doesn't. You jam your knee between his legs, then lean over and force his mouth open. You examine his perfect square human teeth. "So optimal you don't have any. Of course you don't have any. Because they're for <span class="mu-i">killing,</span> aren't they?! They're to make me better at killing. And <span class="mu-i">you</span> don't have to kill anybody. <span class="mu-i">You</span> get to sit at your— at your snake desk, or— I don't know where you sit! But you get to sit on your ass and make me do the work, like you always do. Your hands stay squeaky clean. Nobody hates you! They hate me! They hate..." You squeeze your eyes shut, then take your hands off of his face. You wipe them delicately on your front.
Richard, still pinned under you, makes no effort to move. "I'm sorry."
"You're not," you spit.
"I am. I..." His eyes roam. "I wish you didn't have to find out like this, primrose. I wish I could turn back time. I can't. But I— I'm glad I could— I'm glad I had the time I did with you."
God! He's good at this, isn't he? You could chop his head off and he'd be whispering manipulations from the stump. "The time you had to ruin my life."
"No. No." He raises his arm, cups you by the cheek. "The time you gave me, primrose. Where I could be somebody else. Somebody better for you."
"Who?" you say loudly.
"Charlotte..."
"Say WHO!"
"The time I had to be your—"
But Richard's "—father" is drowned out by your scream of "YOU FUCKING BASTARD!". You knew that's what he meant. You knew he was evil, evil, evil. You just had to know, to <span class="mu-i">know,</span> that he got pleasure out of it. That he didn't only kill your father, that he didn't only eat your memories, but that he meant to— what?! To rob you, to replace him, to feed off your love and loyalty and devotion, to luxuriate in it, grow fat off of it, because he hated you and <span class="mu-i">used</span> you. None of it, not any little bit of it, was real. Not his feelings toward you, and not your feelings toward him. It was fake as his body. Your <span class="mu-i">father's</span> body. The body the stole, the body he's wearing, the body he's mocking the whole wide world with, but mostly you.
You think that Richard deserves to die. You think that Richard deserves to die right now by your own two hands, and that's the only way you'll be able to sleep ever again. Let him live, and you'll see his face when you shut your eyes. You know it.
You think that Richard doesn't deserve to have a face. He doesn't deserve to have a body. You gave him that body, he said (probably lied), so you can take it back. Can't you? This is why, immediately following your screaming, you launch onto him, dig your nails into his cheeks, and start desperately prying, scrabbling, scraping his skin, but there's no purchase and no use. He didn't give you claws, after all. And <span class="mu-i">that</span> is why you sink your needle fangs into his neck.
(2/5)
