❛ 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 ❜ - 𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐨 𝐝𝐢 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐨

[ 𝐨𝐧𝐞 ]

[ 𝐓𝐖 ]
Gore and death

          𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐌 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔 has always been something special. In his case, special could be something bad or good.

      Because, of course, it had always been beautiful when flowers bloomed wherever he set his feet during the soft months of spring, and yes it had been beautiful that whole trees sprung back to life at the simplicity of his touch.

     And yet, no, it hadn't been beautiful when he was laying with fever and hallucinations in his bed during the rough months of winter, and no, it hadn't been beautiful when he tried to loose his footing near the edge of a cliff in the coldness of christmas.

     Liliom Beau had never been easy, in fact, difficulty was woven through his nature like cruelty through that of his father.
Liliom Beau was a living tragedy and everyone who ever laid eyes on him knew such.

     He was a story without the happy ending, a boy with mortal agony in his very bones and wilted faith in his lost, broken soul.

     A destitute boy amongst many during the narcissistic kiss of winter and a jubilant soul amongst dulled faces during the precious touch of spring.

     Liliom Beau was special through the flesh till you hit bone and that was a gift nobody could ever take away from him.

     The raven haired boy had been the pride and joy of all the family he knew. Accepted by his father and by his grandparents, Liliom grew up in the flourishing feeling of being loved. Until he was not.

      Yes, six months of the year he was shown all around town with his bright smile, his piercing green eye and the other the color of tree bark covered in moss in the sun. Yes, every year for six months he was everything the family Beau could've ever dreamed of.

       But while the other six months lasted he was the outcast of the family. The disgrace of a family almost as ancient as the world itself. He was a disappointment when he was lying in his deep green bed, shivering in the heat of fever. He was a disgrace when he screamed for his mother, though the poor boy had never even touched her face, in fits of terror and hallucinations that made him see the pits of hell and his worst fears.

      They loathed him when his silver gleaming tears sunk into the forest green pillow and when his small hands reached through a veil of madness to touch the face of a woman that left him before his first day on earth drew closed.

      The only constant that could not leave him was his father, Leopold. But not because the man wanted to stay and love his only son, no, it was the law and if the law would be erased from the scrolls that had been carved into history there would not be a second wasted. Leopold Beau would leave the defenseless boy in a span of seconds, if he could.