s**t, s**t, s**t.
Yell, yell, hit, repeat.
Is he drunk again? Geez.
He brushes the dirt on his jacket, wiping the blood from his nose and sniveling up his childish tears. The crown on his head was slipping off slightly, but still the strigoi had the balls to stand and walk out of the room as his father nursed another flask of whisky.
It wasn't the overused abusive, poor, angst story. His father was a jolly, happy man when he was sober, and the opulent appearance of the castle showed no sign of poverty in any bit.
I have to be a man about this.
Why was he named Peace? Why, when he caused so much havoc in such little time? He only wanted to see the moon flowers in their full bloom. He just wanted to pick one, and feel the velvety petals and smell it's watery, pure scent.
He only stayed up for a wee longer than usual.
Why, why did the king seem so angry about it? It didn't make sense, although, nothing made sense when you were intoxicated. He learned that much at age eleven.
The redhead kept his face hidden behind his long, wispy bangs. He was so self conscious, so vulnerable.
So introverted.
So cold, cold, cold.
He was always cold. Even in the blazing summer he would be shivering in his lavish room. He would very much rather watch children play than actually join them.
So cold.
"Little prince, would you like some sweets?"
He hated sweet things. So cold, walk away.
"Little prince, care for some tea?"
Tea was too hot. So cold, walk away.
"Would you like to play with me? You seem so pale, and that kind of makes us alike."
Look up.
Lucia.
It suddenly felt like the sun had come out from it hiding place, like a sadistic form of hide and seek. Peace felt so warm. So warm...
Years went on and that warmth grew, shrunk, and grew again. The little prince was not little anymore.
"You just keep growing, prince!"
"How tall? Six three? Six four?"
He would smile warmly.
And on the inside he would scream. Royalty was a joke. Lucia had seen that.
I have to be a man about it, he would say.
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The Bounce.
yeah man.
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