Prophecy #10
Concerning Xanxus
Like climbing grape vines and their curling tendrils, the scars twisted around his body. They trailed through his hair and down his naked spine. Around his heart. He took another shot of brandy to ease the squeezing pain, and wordlessly, the bartender refilled the small glass. He stared into the deep mahogany liquid, but he couldn't escape.
Not here.
Not surrounded by trash.
Veterans spending the last of their welfare checks on a pack of cigarettes.
Broken-hearted women nursing glasses of wine.
He could see their scars. Can't you? Scars burned and branded on their tired faces every time their love ignored. Their kisses unreturned. Their sacrifices forgotten.
Fools. Trash.
But who was he to judge, forever chasing the father who abandoned him. Forever returning the glances of a beautiful young woman. Her gaze made every inch of his body crawl with desire. He needed to be loved. Oh, he needed it badly. But her fear would have to do. He would follow her out tonight. Take her in the darkness.
Because with that circular band—that ring of love holding her finger more gentle than any scar—
He would always be second.
Always.