He waited, letting the silence stretch, savouring her discomfort as though he sought out water with a sponge in hand. When she finally tried to speak, the words came out a breathless, stammering mess. His smile came. Though it was hidden underneath a wide-eyed, worried exterior. “Are you alright?” he asks. He already knew the answer. He saw it. He saw the flush nearing in onto her neck, tainting her cheeks. He let the silence hang again; then, with a voice dripping with false solicitude, he offered the final blow. "Perhaps you should have another sip." The silence stretched, in each added minute, Baal felt like her discomfort fed him, and he had not even put effort into it yet.
He looked at the silver cross resting against her collarbone, a subtle gleam against the rim of her t-shirt. Like a whisper, small, almost imperceptible frown creased his brow.
“A pious girl,” chuckles Baal. “God is a hypocrite, don’t you think?” He leaned in, the sulfurous scent of him a stark contrast to the sterile air. "God loves you," he purred, the words a silken thread laced with poison. "But under certain conditions, doesn't he? A whole list of dos and don'ts. Honestly."
Baal tilted his head, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "There are other, more interesting people out there. People who don't cloak themselves in piety while secretly judging everyone beneath them. You know what gets me? It's not the fire and brimstone. It's the hypocrisy. All that talk about unconditional love, and then they find themselves banished for eternity because of one bad deed."
He takes another sip from his tea, the steam momentarily loosening his narrowed brows. His gaze scoots toward Olive and with a hum, he reaches out hsi hand. Almost sympathetically. "They're afraid of a God who supposedly loves them, but only if they're perfect. That's not love. That's a hostage situation."
