He hated here.
He hated everything about this place.
Now don't get him wrong, It's not like he hated his family. But this was just not his scene. Even though he was born into the Evans family, he didn't feel like he belonged.
There was always something, he couldn't really explain it, but he just had this feeling, and he didn't like it.
Maybe it was just how his father continued to converse to the CEO of some big corporation about golf when Soul knew his his father had no interest in the sport. Maybe it was just how his mother conversed to the wife of some noble, part of a royal family in the UK, about grandchildren when he knew his mother had interest in being a grandmother. Maybe it was just how his brother, Wes, conversed ever so amiably, to the heir of a very wealthy family, a girl whom his mother presented to him suggesting they should get to know each other better.
Who were these people? 'That's a good question', he thought. He'd never seen them before in his life. The only thing he knew about them was how wealthy and successful they are. This was a room full of strangers. People he never connected with and probably, hopefully, never will.
Yet, he was supposed to accept the idea that he'd only grow up to be one of them. That he'd marry a rich snobby girl whom his parents saw best fit for him, or more like whose name and prestige they saw best fit for them. That he was destined from the day he was born to mingle and about with these types of strangers.
The only good thing that came about his life was probably the piano. Then again that was also probably the worst.
He enjoyed playing the piano. Liked it a lot actually. He relished in the way music could say just about who he was and how he felt without the use of words.
But apparently, who he was, wasn't good enough. His music was too dark and "gruesome", for his parent's taste.
"Why don't you try playing something more ... bright?"
"Maybe he should play something composed by his brother and take after him."
"Yes, he should be more like his brother."
What was the point in expressing yourself only to be criticized that you're not good enough? To only be compared to his brother to realize how much better Wes is? To only fail miserably when he can't reach the high expectations set for him?
So maybe he was a bit scared when he aimed to punch the wall but instead sliced right through it. Shocked when instead of his arm, he saw cold, sharp, steel. Confused at how could that be?
So he was a weapon. From the look of his blade, a scythe maybe? This was a golden opportunity. Finally, a chance to get away from this place. He saw his chance to start over, to be someone else, maybe even belong somewhere.
He'd be a fool not to take it.
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