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The godfather was a cruel and wicked man. His complexion was that of a turnip, a deathly white pallor accented with black-rimmed, sunken eyes, a well-defined chin, and thin, oily black hair slicked flat against his head. He had a certain air of refinement to him, wafting through the chill rooms on his pale-lipped smile, his dusted suit, his black, heeled boots on the tile. One could have imagined him as dead, beyond the grave, without much else to work with - it was in his pale skin, lightly touched with yellow around the edges, in his fingertips, shelled in his long, ivory nails, in his slow, shambling walk, carefully perfect: heel-toe, heel-toe.

"NO! Please!" She pleaded for him to relent, but he was merciless in the swishing of his thin wrists. Amber tendrils spun from his clenched hand, lashing the child on the floor once, twice, more.

He was commiting the worst crime a godfather could; killing the child he was in charge of. Horror struck through the porr thing slowly and brutaly being murdered by the one she loved most. How could he ? This was the last thought in her mind and then she died.

He hadn’t wanted to, but he wasn’t in control anymore. He thought the white powder would relax him but alas, it wound him up until he became this creature he didn’t recognize. Once he started to feel like his normal self he went back to that white powder thinking it wasn’t so bad.

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