Kassypen
Larkin Black
Larkin’s body shook, arms pressed firmly against his sides, desperately trying to stop his trembling. There was nothing he could do. Whenever he tried to close his eyes to sleep, the wretched piece of cloth would squeeze his ankle until tears appeared at the corners of his eyes. Each strand felt like it was made of fire, burning deep lines into his skin. But whenever the night was over and the scarf became White, no injuries could ever be found except for some faint, black lines that marked his skin.
Larkin tried desperately to hide his nightmares from his mother, May. She had knit the scarf for him, weaving dark magic into its thread. She had hoped the scarf would become a friend for her son, who never seemed to click with any of the other children. Instead, the spell turned on him. When the sun was gone from the sky, black ink seeped deep into the fabric. Black didn’t allow Larkin to sleep by shooting its dark magic into him, as if it was dispelling its own pain outwards and into the black haired boy. For whenever the fire was sent to the boy, the scarf became a dark gray instead of the deep black he knew so well. Another form of torture was it forced him into sleep, wrapping around his neck and creating dreams of death and destruction. It didn’t allow him to wake up until the sun rose . At the first spark of morning, the scarf turned white, loosing its lust for Larkin’s apparent destruction.
