Voices. Angry. Heavy with antipathy. He could hear them above his head, being thrown back and forth like a game of tennis. Are-You-Crazy's and Not-Fair's and I-Hate-This's are abundant in this house. He supposes they think that he can't hear them, or maybe they just don't care.
The Little Bit has become a facsimile of the Whelp. Compassion is not something she holds for him, nowadays. Not that he blames her, bad man, he is. Dangerous. Not fit to be around puppies and Christmas elves and whatnot.
They view him as innocuous. He knows better. Knows why he seems to spend a lot of time in basements and why Goldilocks brings him his 'liquid' to imbibe in, just enough so he can keep his head clear.
He used to have prowess, used to instill fear into the hearts of all the pretty little girls. Bets he could still do it, if he tries hard enough, but he scares himself enough without trying to frighten others.
Stop. Thinking. Blink. Stare at wall. Keep your mind blank and their voices and the voices aren't so stentorian. They shout at him, if he lets them, accusations and names. They whisper when he doesn't, ultimatums and choices.
Straighten up, boyo. No slouchers in this family. Yes, sir, of course sir. Way to go, boyo, perfect decorum. Thank you, sir.
Shake, shake, shake. Get those nasty voices ad memories out of your head. Stop. Thinking. Silly, silly boy. Oh, that's something Princess would say, isn't it? Probably Red, too. Bad Red, though. Poor little tree.
Oh, here comes Goldilocks now. Click. Click. Click. Down the stairs. Smile, the world is watching. A glass of 'liquid' in hand, just enough to keep his head clear. Concentrate now, don't spill a drop. Oh, this should sedate him for a while, shouldn't it? Mm, yummy. Sedation.