Knives and potions; potions and knives. It had been that way
since before he could remember. It was like a mantra of sorts. Until one
day. There came some flavor in his bland world. After hours, when he was
done sneering at people that he knew were no better than him; when the last
drops of ink splattered onto the parchment from his fine feather quill;
nightly, when he rolled over panting, another girl in his bed. It was a
different one every time. That's when he would think, and say his mantra.
"Knives and potions make me strong. Knives and potions, potions and knives.
Knives and potions, death and poisons, pain and torment; Her." That's when he'd think about Her.
Potions numbed him, chilled him. Pain befriended him. Torment taunted him. Death plagued him. Knives comforted him. She confused him. He did not like this feeling, the feeling doubting your self-worth. One thing he could be sure of: she would harm him. He could use her; an easy game to win. He could use his knives and potions, death and poisons, pain and torment, until he had her. Then he would be left with nothing; not even his knives and potions, surely not his trusty potions and knives.
"Knives and potions make me strong. Knives and potions, potions and knives.
Knives and potions, death and poisons, pain and torment; Her." That's when he'd think about Her.
Potions numbed him, chilled him. Pain befriended him. Torment taunted him. Death plagued him. Knives comforted him. She confused him. He did not like this feeling, the feeling doubting your self-worth. One thing he could be sure of: she would harm him. He could use her; an easy game to win. He could use his knives and potions, death and poisons, pain and torment, until he had her. Then he would be left with nothing; not even his knives and potions, surely not his trusty potions and knives.