My parents had also started making preparations to move out. I had still not confronted them about the fact that I wouldn’t be able to move with the.... I just couldn’t bring myself to face them, especially since I didn’t have a good excuse. I couldn’t just tell them I was some sort of superpowered individual who would be responsible for keeping things in order when shit did hit the metaphorical fan.Samuel was training by his lonesome, as he was used to doing whenever he wanted his mind off. Byron was almost my height now and he stretched, his shirt riding up to give a slice of hollow stomach. He looked for the clock.This was our nightly ritual. Every now and again we'd leave things too late and while usually I'd be able to control him, sometimes I wouldn't. Hence the newly repaired painting. Byron always feels guilty in the morning when he sees what damage he's caused, not the least the time when I came to wake him with eleven stitches in my face. But it's not his fault.I walked. More

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