Professor Davis had a long, pensive pinch to his brow as he read the piece with intense concentration.
The old devil sat across from him, grumbling and huffing every few seconds at what Cloud imagined were errors.
A beaten mahogany desk, cluttered with exams and student papers, separated the two: teacher and student, devil and demon.
Cloud knew he was complete horse shit at writing. It didn’t matter the type.
Fiction, non-fiction, biographical, auto-biographical… Maybe it was because he always waited until the night before—sometimes even the mornings—to start.
Maybe it was because he received sick satisfaction at watching his Professor’s face blossom with red anger once he realized that Cloud only wrote one out of six pages—and sometimes not even
on the required topic. Watching Professor Davis’ cheeks flush scarlet, Cloud determined with twisted amusement that it was definitely the latter.
“Cloud.” His voice matched his appearance: Ancient, frail, and sickly soft.
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