𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐲

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐩 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐒𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐗𝐈𝐈

Saturday was Gomez's first visitor in prison.

The young boy sat in front of his Mother's empty visitor glass, sandwiched by two thick stone walls on either side of him, of two other empty visitor blocks, waiting.

The glass in front of him had handprints on it, and a small round cluster of holes at the bottom for communication between the prisoner and their visitor. The room behind it had a blue hue from the dim light and looked frosty and cold.

The boy was in his monochrome school uniform and his signature long black overcoat, and his hands were placed neatly on the smooth, wooden surface in front of him, his fingers interlacing.

His Mother walked into view, in a vibrant, less-than-flattering orange prisoner jumpsuit, with a white shirt underneath, which did nothing to hide her bulging belly. Her hands were cuffed behind her back, with a male officer holding her wrists.

The woman grunts in her effort to sit down without stabilising herself with her hands, as the officer unlocks her handcuffs.

Her eldest son glares coldly at her, the dim light casting sharp shadows on his pale face. In the fraction of a second, his obsidian eyes darted quickly down to his right, as his long, luscious, thick black eyelashes lowered with his pale eyelids, where Thing crawled up onto the wooden surface, looking paler than his young Master, making his various black, thin stitches stand out against the pale backdrop of his smooth, supple skin.

Gomez's face crinkled up emotionally upon seeing the severed, large, right hand.

Thing crawled up and sprawled himself flat on the thick glass, while Gomez, with her brows furrowed, a slight smile on her face, reached out her smaller, tan, chubby hand and lined it with Thing's. She barely touched the glass before retracting her hand with a disheartened sigh, as Thing slid down the pane.

Her hand formed a fist as it returned to her side, her smile disappeared, and the woman turned her attention to her beloved eldest son.

She was classified as 'Prisoner 171912,' the large numbers printed clearly on her orange jumpsuit.

Saturday's shining obsidian eyes pierced through her, looking for answers.

The woman's smile disappeared, replaced by a more serious expression as she asked: "My little tormenta, how's your Father?" her thick, bushy eyebrows scrunched up in worry.

"Devastated. He hates you in orange." Saturday replied coldly and sharply, in his usual stoic, no-nonsense, brief and informative way.

His Mother instinctively looked downwards at her tragically orange jumpsuit.

"I caught him laying a rose on a grave earlier today." her son continued, his clever, obsidian eyes shining like stars. "The headstone read "Garrett Gates." The very boy you've been arrested for murdering."

His Mother's own inky eyes darted away from her son's face, her thick brows furrowed, before looking back into his icy eyes.

"Care to explain?" Saturday asked coldly, his dark, shining eyes drilling into his Mother's.

Thing moved about nervously on his spot, and seemed to have turned a shade whiter.

Gomez's eyes turned glassy, as she recalled the horrific events that occurred at the night of the 1990 Rave'N.

"Garrett was infatuated with your Father."

Saturday gave a rare blink.

"He mistook Mort's playfulness and kindness for interest. His infatuation turned into obsession, and he started stalking him."