_By they spoke, and all he remembers is the

_By  the time he was twelve, he’d read Madame Bovary cover to cover, eleven times. Late night, spent alone, his honey-bee fingers turning pages of his heart-song. He’d draw a breath every time Emma Bovary would do things good girls don’t but great girls do. He’d imitate and learn to bat his eyelashes the way that made women jealous and men frantic.__He never claimed to have modest motivations._…_He meets the boy on an autumn morning, when not even his father’s jacket could keep the chill from seeping into his bones. The sunlight blonde of the boy’s hair falling on his honey-apple cheeks. The boy knelt beside the peonies, plucking them one by one, with reverence and care and he would later love this boy with cherub cheeks and jailbait fingers.__After all, he was taught to cherish those who murdered with a mother’s mercy._…_The first time he kissed James was after the second time they spoke, and all he remembers is the muscular weight of his wet, wet tongue. The bruises, left on his heartbreaker hips by James’ thick fingers, were the colours on the vast canvas of his body, which along with his bleeding lip and rose flushed neck, changed him into the model of a Renaissance piece of art.__His body was a territory, to be marked by the killer-boy who made him his muse._…_Ashton moans like a million dollar girl paid to love like a back-alley whore, and he thanks his innocent churchgoing mother for leading him to this place. He loves like it’s a fucking war, running riots across the terrain of Ashton’s baby soft skin. The red crescent shaped marks his love leaves on his shoulder is the testimony of how good he makes it. Pushing and pulling with a surgeon’s precision and a sinner’s abandon.__He lets the boy leave first, the limp in his walk and the fucked-out glow on his butterfly skin as he leaves the small storage room lets all the people know how the two most broken people in his wretched place found completion in each other’s souls. The nurses look at him with a disapproving gaze, as if he stained Ashton with the blood that lines his palm. He returns a serial killer smirk and a James Dean gaze, but his fingers in fists tell his real intentions,__Come near us, and I’ll tear you apart with my bare hands._…_He pushed his brother into the lake on his seventh birthday, because he’d said that the boy that he’d never be the pretty girl he wants to be._…_He’d killed the first girl on her thirteenth birthday, because she wore black stockings like his mother and he had an itch to scratch._…_The last time he hurt another person was four days before he was sent here. He tied her to a tree and cut off her hair, and skinned her fingers and fed the pieces to his goldfish._…_Six months before they caught him. He’d slit a girl’s throat because she had looked at him in the same steely way his mother used to, before touching the blistering iron to him juvenile back._…_A day after he heard that be taking James away, he nicked a pair of scissors from the canteen._…_Two years after they put him there, they told him he’ll be sent away. He broke the nurses arm when she came to administer his meds._…_Two days after James died, he stabbed himself with the scissors seven times, once for each of the freckles on James’ cheek._…_Six minutes before the guards shot him, he carved the words into the nurses forehead with the same tranquilizer needle with which they had sent her to him,__To my love, may your flowers bloom, evermore._