"You're no fun when you're detoxing, Grantaire. I prefer you soaked." Tom approaches slowly, teeth flashing with a maddened grin in the dim light. "Go on, go for the knife. It may even things out."
He feels no guilt as he stalks forward, dragging his bad leg ever so slightly. He feels the same rush of power and satisfaction as he would if Grantaire were squirming beneath him in a business deal, wiggling like a lizard trying to find a corner to escape into. It's not about bloodshed, and it's not about that thin membrane between life and death, and Grantaire's likely resurrection is hardly even a consideration.
The truth is, Tom's never agreed with the simple principle that all lives are worthwhile. Everything that follows from that - killing being wrong, principally - falls under that weight like a domino. It's hedonism without restraint, pleasure-seeking without the underpinnings of remorse.
shall the gravity give out?
He feels no guilt as he stalks forward, dragging his bad leg ever so slightly. He feels the same rush of power and satisfaction as he would if Grantaire were squirming beneath him in a business deal, wiggling like a lizard trying to find a corner to escape into. It's not about bloodshed, and it's not about that thin membrane between life and death, and Grantaire's likely resurrection is hardly even a consideration.
The truth is, Tom's never agreed with the simple principle that all lives are worthwhile. Everything that follows from that - killing being wrong, principally - falls under that weight like a domino. It's hedonism without restraint, pleasure-seeking without the underpinnings of remorse.