| QUOTE |
| Indiana had been sitting in the front entrance of the dorms as young Mitchel had started his journey. Indiana had caught sight of him and had been following him ever since, lurking in the shadows at every pause, his frame fading flat against the nearest wall. There was something about Mitchel which caught Indiana's stomach, something about him which uniquely intrigued him, something he set out to discover. With his camera hidden in the pocket of his jacket, a soft smirk lined his lips. It was as if the beams of Heaven were shining down on him. Mitchel had made his way into the alleyway. Behind him, Indiana stalked, sleekly like a lion or a panther, eying up its prey. His steps silent, his mind clear, his eyes intense. When moving to America, he had promised his mother that behavior like this would stop, that he'd become good, but he couldn't resist it. It was as if asking a tiger to sit. It didn't work. He blinked in the darkness, taking in his surroundings. It was safe to show himself, it was safe to approach. He could get a clean run, like an airplane and a runway. The smirk upon Indiana's face increased and as the boy turned around, Indiana did not hide away. He advanced upon Mitchel, uncaring of who was watching, uncaring of Mitchel's feelings, totally uncaring. It was time for a new portrait, and the idea of blood mixed within his hair and bruises lining his face, it was too exciting to hold in. This was what Indiana done it for, the excitement. It was like sex in another form. It fueled him of glory and power. It gave him such a buzz that nothing else could give. His heart race increased, his footsteps getting faster as he gained upon him. It was like nearing the finishing line of a race. One last lap. Sometimes it could feel overwhelming what he was doing, tonight was one of them. He stopped for a moment and gasped at the air, allowing it to circulate around his blood, a tingle playing tennis in his stomach. The closer he got, the more the excitement grew. He licked his lips in a somewhat sexual manner. The finishing product was more than he could handle. He would display it upon his wall until he made a new one. And then it would go with the rest of his art work, in boxes. Or it would go home. He sent the abstract ones home so his mother wouldn't click that they were of people, people hurting. She actually liked his art work, the art work which he let her see. Finally, with his target footsteps away, Indiana reached out his hand and gripped at the boy's hair, jerking him closer to him and then pushing him to the ground. If he could get them to the ground, then they were his. |