You blindly search around in the box until you come across what you are looking for; a shivering mass, huddling in one corner. Scooping him out of the box, you notice that he barely struggles at all. There is not fight left in the teen star, he's too scared. "Mitchell," you whisper reassuring, while one finger plays with his unbelieavbly smooth and straight hair. You wonder how it smells, or more importantly, how it will taste.
"Mitchell, C'mon I want to play a game."
He mumbles something that only he can hear, scrunched up in a quivvering tight ball. He's wearing some baggy dark jeans and a white hoodie over a black t-shirt, with some funky skater shoes. The little rapper-wannabe looked absolutely scrumptious with his pale unblemished skin and stubby fingers.
"What did you say Mitchell? I couldn't hear you with your head down there... Oh, well. If you're not going to play, I guess we can just get straight to dinner."
This made his head shoot up as he started babbling, tears streaming down his pale cheeks and falling onto your hand. "I can't understand what you're saying still, my tasty little morsal."
"I was asking what I did to deserve this. I'm just a teenager, I have my whole life ahead of me. I was goin to be a big star."
You laugh at this, deciding to mock him. "You were an actor on a Disney TV show. What did you expect yourself to be?"
"I was going to get into rapping and... Oh it doesn't matter, you're just going to eat me anyway, aren't you?"
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