weary.

Time was never fruitful for the artificial angel. There was no enchantment to heal his pathetic self-loathing & dragged on grievances. Everyone he seemed to care for, simply dropped from existence as if they were easily erased from his narrative. This spoiled little 'rich' boy lamented for companions who might not even desire his company anymore; for a lover whose whereabouts are unbeknownst to him, even after more than half a decade. Therefore, to preoccupy himself, he worked under his father’s guidance like the obedient child he never use to be.

His hobbies? Fighting mostly. After all, it was his duty to relieve of the filth came through his father’s doors. & though martial arts proved to be a good outlet to cast aside his negativity, like most everything, he took it too far. Training was no different as he would find his knuckles bruised & bloody by the end of the day— very much how they were now.

Pain was a reminder that he could feel; something he avidly refuses to believe he's capable of. What was the use of emotions anyway? He might have been a valued treasure, but he believed that he was easily expendable. Very much like his beaten company, whom he stepped over as if they were mere obstacles obscuring his path & not people he'd just finished with.

❛ I had a feeling I shouldn’t have worn this shirt today. ❜ He mused with nonchalance, his calm tone a contrast of how unkempt he’d become: an aftermath of combat. Jokes on him though, he’s the stupid ass who can never be seen without a single piece of white clothing.