Still working on my multi-chaps. This was written after a Marilyn Manson binge. Tekken is also disclaimed as per tradition.
You're seven years old and a certified plunderer.
"Everything." She murmurs wistfully, her glazed eyes straying to the unused prom dress and the textbooks gathering dust on the table. Even the gleaming shells of hard-backed insects are enough to keep her gaze fixated off of you. "I gave up everything."
And instead, it's your eyes that are reflected in the glass of the framed photograph. Its eyes like yours that ensnared her into their web of honey-spun stories laced with enough iron and wine to both secure and numb her. You creep closer and closer to Mama, whimpering softly for the thorns sprouting from the deceiving softness of her words are drawing blood. You nuzzle closer, picture frame cutting into your chest where you hold it, trying to summon warmth from stone.
A hand lashes out, earning you a five-fingered imprint on your cheek.
The frame falls, the glass shatters and the image of the man you called 'father' is in pieces.
She curls back into herself, shrouding herself beneath the covers, recoiling from the feel of your skin on her palm. Teenage love-child, bastard son of an idiot girl, sacrificial lamb of the altar of mistakes, you know the drill and you sing it badly. Always the wrong words, the wrong voice, the right eyes in the wrong face. Mummy's pariah boy, Daddy's unwanted castaway, nobody's reason to love.
Tainted child whose only crime was to happen, your tears fall unnoticed onto the rag on your back. Child of ruin, an heir to all the wrong moves on the board, your path is strewn with the roots of your family tree. Harsh world, cruel world, monochromatic world, your only choice is to quell your trembling hands and don the crimson mantle.
And all shall hail the thief of hearts.
You're fifteen years old and a certified murderer.
"How could you?" she weeps, not bothering to calm the storms in her teary eyes. "I trusted you."
You're five foot five and still growing at it, your hair's dipped in fiery shades of crimson and your words were cut clean from the tongues of lesser poets. And you charm, and you tease, and you taunt, and you prey, like it's all a bloodsport to you. You spared the truth and spoilt the girl. Tomorrow, you expect to forget her name but you'll keep the smell of her jasmine perfume and cherry kisses as victory trophies on your steadily growing hall of fame.
"I trusted you."
Silly, silly, silly, you taunt, sing-song voice and velvet lips pursed in a whistle. 'Tis the signal of the end, the sound of the bugle heralding a shameful defeat on her side. You laugh harder as the cries ascend to wails and glide away on poison-tipped wings. Cruel angel, black-hearted dealer of cards, what have you done now?
"I love you, Hwoarang."
You don't stop, singing louder to cover your tracks, aimless bard with selfish intents. Her sobs pluck a chord within you, one which you silence later on with a spell cast by screeching foreign bands ringing through your headphones. And you don't stop the noise, and you turn it up, your body arches in exultation of the rhythm while your mouth worships the chants depicting those glorified images of hard drugs and harder fucks.
Ace-to-five, ace-to-six, lowball challenges which just aren't worth your time. Soon enough, you'll cut your teeth playing with the big boys, fists and feet speckled with drops of red, the color of blood, the color of hearts you rip from chests. Their clubs and spades to your ace, it's a straight flush victory for the added glint in your dull copper eyes.
The secret's in the killing, the exultation in the spoils.
You're nineteen and a certified life ruiner.
The stakes are high on the sap's table and he bounces on the soles of his feet expectantly, a cheesy grin plastered to his fat sweaty face. You take your place, ace of spades, trump card du jour, preacher of sermons in switchblades, duelist in death cards. The fool before you shall prove to be too slow, tasting nothing but ashes in the wake of the wildfires.
Boy of seraphim eyes, Man of thunderous will, where do you belong? The sky or the pit?
Seconds, mere seconds, and a spent body lies at your feet, begging for your mercy. Weakness fills you with disgust but the bulge in his wallet makes you fingers itch for the feel of crinkled paper notes. Take what you capture, college funds or broken pride, laugh at the blatant ignorance shoved in front of you. You, leader of a motley crew of cut-offs and delinquents, loose-moraled king of the streets, with everything you wanted snatched from the grasp of those who took you for a pawn.
Carefree town fool you aren't. Neither are you anyone's to caress and coddle like a beloved pet. How could your chance at salvation have passed you by if it had never even come alive when your innocence was left to wither alone? You are no one's to hurt, hence no one's to hold, renegade youth with the key to your self-destruction in your father's eyes.
Mama's hands still split your scars apart in your sleep. The secret boils in your veins, so you fight and you break and you wreck and you rebel until chaos is in order and you can lose yourself in the thick of the heat. Bruises cover the mess you left behind, concealing the marks of your past and the futility of your plays. Temporary acts of suicidal sadism which serve you no better than when you first started to self-destruct.
Papercut Prince, it doesn't hurt until you see it bleed.