charons order

how dear a child am i.

forced upon a room, consisting of only seas of blue, hazel and frill, sinking within the soft sensation of the fabric and lamination beneath each bruised limb, all at the expense of a common father: here, lay myself, lay the feeble scapegoat every figure here could pinpoint with a singular glance, no change in thought process taking place to influence such disgust in their own kin. the scent here was obnoxious, nose scrunched up from the alcohol clinging to my visage, perfumes drifting from every aspect and corner i may glare at.

drink again.

for as long as i remember, this room i have described has been my only source of inhabitance, proving less of a home and more of a trophy case for those outside to gaze at in awe. who doesn't enjoy mockery of the monarchy and its many children, locked away until ceremonies or dances or anything that'll simply make him look better, consumed by utter claustrophobia that swells within and infects the brain and heart in an instant. i may choose to drown this out with whatever i please, as do many others in here: talking does something, though scolded by onlookers; playing with brittle toys to pass the time, despite aging past that point by so long; as for myself, destruction of self does enough.

drink again.

its humiliating. listening to their constant nonsense and whispers from here and out, heavy murmurs of the disintegrating star echoing throughout the corridors ahead, ones i have already mapped out to wander perfectly down just to reach the same place, the same hall, the same meetings, the same seats. considering anyone in here as family despite every one of us hardly knowing eachother, no matter how compact and tightly placed each doll may be, recognising every creature up to the detail of their pupils and fingernails yet the effort proving futile regardless (though may still choose to examine to this point, the seconds seeping out and coming to a halt, severed as corpses of the time we have lost.)

drink again.

if there may be a way to collapse this regal space into dust and ash with a casual tilt of the head, taking down the facades of blood relationships thickening and falsified truths with it in one swoop, i would grasp it at any point, no matter how weakened my grip may appear by now, only just keeping this bottle in my hand with tremors amongst every digit and numbing limb. it all mirrors that same lack of emotion, developed from tedious experiences in excess, a way to cope, a way to avoid failure.

drink again.

i shall be considered the perfect son, even if it may be the last thing i do, slaughtered for the sheer insanity of my statement and tripping over the border set between us and normality. nothing shall stand within my path, dragging myself into any slight damned miracle just to get me higher than all of the imbeciles sat around me, superiority's impetuous touch grazing every inch of this fragile form, persuading me to commit acts that shall frighten any man into not speaking a word again.

drink again?

ill find a way. i will find a way. i will find a way and nothing in this glass cage will guard the reveal of freedom, even if the rays of paternity shatter my remaining traces of confidence and self assurance that something may possibly come from the future other than drinking myself into a coma and ruining the legacy emanating from me by now. so many years have passed and yet i still haven't budged. it may take me 500 nights and 500 days, drain the supplied youth of my body just to latch onto security: though, just the thought of this attempt bothers me.

damn it.
its fear isnt it.

fear that ill tarnish what he believes of me. fear that ill be torn apart if i do anything, move, breathe, look upon anyone else. fear that itll not work.

fear.

how shall i make use of that annoyance of a word that i refuse to keep describing myself with, begging to do slightly better than expectations growling down my ear every second im within this house, a little puppet dragged around by darkened strings that have grown useless and on the verge of dissolving as i plot further.

... anyways.