~Patience~
I am going to sit, and I am going to wait.
I am going to sit and wait like a good little boy, and smile and nod like a good little boy, and tell mommy and daddy that I love them like a good little boy, and say how sorry I am and cry like I mean it like a good little boy, and then I am going to tear their throats out with my bare hands for making such a fool of me. And it will feel so good to get out again.
But that is neither here nor there. Because patience is a virtue, and what is perfection without virtue? Delusion, that's what; and I'll not have it said that I am delusional. Oh no. That just wouldn't do. Have to look good for the press, after all. Have to wear that perfect charming smile and be a good little boy. Have to be a good little boy, a normal little boy; no more letting myself be myself because that just isn't how good, normal little boys are supposed to act.
Normalcy. Idiocy. Insignificance. Insects. I feel dirty.
I realize that it's really not so normal to wash your hands so much--every five minutes or so *would* seem to be a bit overkill--but I really can't help it if I can't scrub that feeling of filth off my skin, now can I?
But. Patience. Patience is a virtue. I have plenty of patience--I've always had plenty of patience, it really is something I pride myself on. I can wait, and I can watch. I can let those stupid Chosen Children think they've beaten me, I can let them think that deep down, I really am a good person.
Fools.
I can hang about with sad, guilt-torn lonely eyes and watch them bend and break and let me in to their close little collective of trust and love and friendship, or whatever the hell they call that bond they seem to have. They will, I *know* they will because I've watched them. I know them. They are a ragged medly of gullible children, and I am shamed to think I was even temporarily deposed by them.
Insects.
But, that's alright. Because I think I know already--yes even now, even just watching them from this close distance--and it's really nothing so grand. Something. . .that every Chosen Child has, certainly; a sort of strength, indomitable will that has nothing to do with any crests or armors or what have you. But nothing I can't work around. No, nothing I can't get past and under and through and crush beneath my boots with just a little Kaizer ingenuity-- ninety-eight percent brains and two percent hard work and one hundred percent spiteful, vindictive sadistic raw perfection-- and maybe just a little bit of that practiced for-the-camera charm. . .
And of course, patience.