LISTS.


I'm…making…a…list.

You stupid, stupid, incorrigible little boy.

Oh, I sound villainous? I could—care—less.

You—are immersed—within an unbelievable, fantastical, unreal world where every single day ends in some kind of valuable lesson, where turning your back on your enemy won't lead to instant death, where every 'wise-crack' you say isn't just another opportunity to have someone crueler silence that oversized mouth forever. I am trying to protect you. I care for you, child, why would I want to adopt you, otherwise?

'Hurt your friends'? What do you take me for? I've lost my own two best friends, to—one another! Why would I ever want to impose that kind of pain upon you?

I am making a list.

Of all the things that you do on a daily basis that can get you killed. Of all of the things you do that will not work forever.

And you had better listen to me well once it's completed, because I'll have made it for your own good, and it just may save your half-life.

Do you hear me?

Of course not. I'm ranting and raving at the wall. It's not that much different than when I'm speaking to you. Why do I want children when they are like this? Oh, but you know I'll never give up on that dream. It's on my list of things that will ensure that I die, fully die, truly happy, someday.