Whis POV
7 Rings, 7 Sins. Pride, Wrath, Gluttony, Greed, Lust, Envy, Sloth. Lucky me, stuck in the sweetest circle of Hell. Everyone says Gluttony is paradise, a non-stop party filled with booze, loud music, and demons who roam freely—lucky bastards.
Gluttony tastes like it wants to keep you.
Gold is in the air, warm and heavy, sliding down my tongue even when I keep my mouth shut. My Bub drinks first—always does—pulling in the ring's flavor and filing it under my ribs. It never settles on one color: yellow floods everything here, but there's a rim of blue from a distant bassline, a thin green thread from the counting of coins, the sharp orange bite of an argument three streets over. A hive of taste with no off switch. Even out here on the last square of honest grass I could find, I'm not alone. I'm breathing everyone else.
I lie back and let the blades poke through my shirt. Antennae twitch, wings give a quick warning buzz at the sky for pretending to be sweet about it. Gluttony loves you like a crowd does: loudly, for everyone. The queen at the center glows like morning. The hive answers. That's the poster version. I know the poster by heart.
They said I was just like her. Beautiful, amazing, unforgettable—sugar words that melt into one instruction: perform. The staff raised me; not the polished ones who correct the angle of forks, just the ones who keep the ovens hot and the floors shining. They tried. I learned the quiet hallways, the way to fold a shirt with two hands when you have four. Somewhere in there, a ribbon got tied around my wrist and tugged toward a stage that never had my name on it.
I did the obvious. I learned to make noise. Strings until my fingers bled. Drums until the walls buzzed. Keys when counting calmed me down. Then sigils in the hours no one sees: a wrist-snap that turns a flick of honey into amber midair; shields that harden clear and clean; whips that recoil like rubber bands and erase problems in one hit. Then fighting, because the rings aren't kind and honesty sometimes looks like a bruise. I stacked skills like bottle caps and made a tower that anyone would have to look up at.
She didn't. Not really.
We had meals sometimes. Big table, bigger laughter from demons who weren't us. She'd glow; the room would glow back; I remember the counts of the clinks. Sometimes was years ago. At least, from what the staff told me.
Eighteen today. In Hell, that's the age where you either ascend or implode, depending on how loud your ring cheers. The comb-shaped phone sits on my chest like a mouth that won't open. My Bub brightens to fill the silence, and the yellow goes a little bitter.
I do have goals. Not "be loved by the poster" anymore. I want control—not the kind where you own rooms, the kind where rooms stop owning you. I want my Bub to listen even when the ring screams a flavor I didn't order. I want to walk through Greed and not carry the green home. I want to cut deals, not inherit them. And, fine, I want her to say my name like she means it, once, in a room with no audience. I'm not proud of that last part.
The phone vibrates against my sternum. Reflex snaps my wings before my brain can say don't. I flip it.
[Ad-Bot]: Heard you're 18! Celebrate with a succu—
[R2B2]: Blocked.
The laugh that escapes is small and humorless. The grass scratches my shoulder blades like it wants me to get up and pretend this is a normal day. I stay down.
Buzz. Harder this time—annoyed wasp rattle against bone.
[Tex]: Yo, happy birthday, lil man
[R2B2]: Don't call me kid.
[Tex]: Heh, you'll always be the kid to me
[Tex]: Wish I could roll through, but Bee's got me stuck babysitting the crowd
Both of us. The words aren't there, but I taste them anyway—like a bruise blooming under yellow. I stare at the message until the letters stop trying to be more than they are.
[R2B2]: Tell the hive I said thanks.
I don't send the longer version. The longer version would be messy: about posters and spotlights, about being looked through in rooms that smell like sugar and perfume, about counting clinks so I don't say something that makes the floor sticky in the wrong way. The longer version tastes like red metal—pride—and I'm trying not to swallow it.
The grass breathes. Distant bass adds more blue to the edges of my Bub. I dial left in my head anyway, a knob on my sternum only I can feel, and the colors flatten enough to think.
[R2B2]: You know any places in Greed that don't water down coffee?
[Tex]: No
[Tex]: Coffee in Greed is a crime
[Tex]: Bring your own
[R2B2]: Thought so
[Tex]: You doin anything tonight?
[R2B2]: Yeah. Big plan. Stare at the sky and not go deaf.
Tex doesn't push. That's the thing about him—they wrote "reliable" into his bones. He won't fix your life, but he will stand in front of a door until the room behind it stops shouting. He doesn't send confetti or balloons or some cutesy sticker. He sends a pause that means he's still here.
[Tex]: I'll slide by after, grab somethin' to eat
[R2B2]: Don't. You'll end up playing medic for drunk royals
[Tex]: I've already patched up two Lust demons and a Gluttony biter. What's one more emergency?
The edges of my mouth try to move. I let them fail. The hive hum in my chest bumps, settles. I picture the tower of bottle caps I've built—ugly, wobbly, mine—and imagine adding another layer no one notices.
[R2B2]: Fine. If you survive, text me.
[Tex]: Bet.
[Tex]: And hey—
[Tex]: For real though—you're doin' better than you think. I see it, man. That counts.
I look at that one too long. It's not flowery, it's not a speech. It still hits like a hand pressed warm and steady to the back of my head. Blue pricks the yellow. Envy in me is always ugly; I let it burn out.
[R2B2]: Don't get sappy, Tex. The ring will think you're cheating on her.
[Tex]: The ring gets jealous anyway.
[Tex]: Oh—
[Tex]: Also
[Tex]: She says happy birthday.
I almost type which she but I don't need to. The gold in the air thickens like it heard its cue.
[Tex]: Don't start.
[Tex]: She's trying.
[R2BEE2]: I tried for eighteen years.
There it is, the cheap truth. I send it before I can sand it down. The wasp buzz on my sternum stops for longer than a breath. When it returns, it's slower.
[Tex]: I know.
[Tex]: I'm not asking you to forget that.
[Tex]: Just leave the door unlocked.
I can make a thousand jokes about doors. I have, in halls where you can taste the shape of a secret before anyone says it. I don't make one now.
[R2B2]: I'll think about it.
That, at least, is true. The evening leans. Blue from a love song rolls across the rooftops. Yellow swallows it whole and grins. I don't speak. If I speak, it has to be by name, and I'm not giving the sky one.
The phone goes quiet. The field listens. I build a plan that doesn't need anyone else to clap for it: money I earn, deals I cut, hounds I make safer in alleys the royals forget exist. Control that isn't borrowed, attention I don't have to pay for with a performance I'll hate. If a queen looks up one day, it won't be because I'm glowing. It'll be because I happen to be in the way of the light.
The field ends where the vendors begin.
Honey-lamps switch on along the boulevard like combs turned sideways, dripping gold. Steam from carts rises in bands—spice, sugar, char. My Bub drinks the air: yellow first (always), a ribbon of blue from a club's sub-bass, thin green where cashboxes click too fast, a quick orange snap when someone cuts the line. The trick is letting the flavor pass without swallowing. I picture the dial at my sternum and turn it a notch left. The hum thins. Survivable.
Grills hiss at curbside counters. Skewers glaze to a mirror sheen. A waffle window stamps comb patterns into batter and stacks them too high; syrups glint in glass like melted topaz. A pushcart pumps honey-mead from a tap shaped like a stinger. Every third doorway is a bar wearing a neon bottle like a confession. Liquor storefronts squat between the revelry as anchors—rows of glass, labels loud enough to be heard. The ring doesn't pretend to be anything else. I respect that.
Buzz.
[Tex]: You eat?
[R2BEE2]: Had liquid dinner.
[Tex]: Not a meal.
[R2BEE2]: Tell that to Gluttony incarnate.
[Tex]: I do. She rarely listens.
[R2BEE2]: Grabbing something with protein.
A stand flips meat over coals the size of my head; fat pops in staccato. The air tastes like salted yellow for a second. I slip past a knot of Succubi rehearsing half-choreo—blue spritzes off them; my Bub flares before I dial left again.
Spam tries me anyway.
[Ad-Bot]: R2BEE2! TONIGHT ONLY—FREE ENTRY with code—
[R2BEE2]: Blocked.
[Ad-Bot2]: Beel—
[R2BEE2]: Blocked.
An alley coughs up a Hellhound courier hugging a box. Two Imps slide out of brick like oil. Green sharpens the air—cheap, cilantro bite. Imp #1 grabs.
My wrist snaps. A clear ribbon slips from my palm to cobble and hardens amber. His shoes glue mid-lunge. Confusion, then orange—useless. His friend fishes a pocket knife; honey threads out and pins his wrist to a light post with a polite click.
Whis: Run home.
The courier bolts, tail tucked. I dissolve the amber after she's gone; the street swallows its taste back. I keep walking. I don't call it heroics. Lower-class demons keep the hive honest; that's reason enough.
Buzz.
[Tex]: You good?
[R2BEE2]: I'm vertical.
[Tex]: That reads like "no."
[R2BEE2]: It reads like "I'm vertical."
He doesn't push. Tex checks in because I have a habit of vanishing, not because he's got eyes everywhere. He's everybody's friend and nobody's fool. He'll hold a door without telling you how to walk through it.
The boulevard fattens into a plaza where everything is something to eat. Flatbreads bubble and gloss with heat and honey. Fruit drowns in syrup; cubes catch light like it's their job. A stand rattles neon bottles in a rhythm that sells itself. Two demons in Beelze colors pour Beelzejuice from a keg taller than they are; foam climbs like it thinks it's alive. The crowd roars; yellow swallows blue whole.
Buzz.
[Bird Sis]: do u still exist or did gluttony eat you
[R2BEE2]: Define exist.
[Bird Sis]: i mean are you a concept or a person rn. i can't keep up.
[Bird Sis]: also dad "accidentally" did three scales in falsetto at like midnight. artists should be illegal after 10pm.
[R2BEE2]: He's practicing again?
[Bird Sis]: yeah. composing? performing? emoting loudly. it's a whole thing. i recorded 5 seconds for science.
[R2BEE2]: Fantastic. the stars will sue him personally.
[Bird Sis]: they can take a number. anyway happy 18. don't do drugs unless they're metaphors.
[R2BEE2]: It's all metaphors tonight.
[Bird Sis]: weird flex but ok. be safe. text me if you get famous so i can say i knew you before it was cool.
[R2BEE2]: You already say that about yourself.
[Bird Sis]: correct. goodnight for real.
She cares, in her orbit. The center is still her sky. That's fine; honesty that doesn't pretend tastes cleaner.
The old residential spine of Gluttony doesn't sell you anything until you ask. The mansion district sits like a row of promises finished in a hurry—white stone veined with gold as if someone poured honey into rock and told it not to move. Our mansion—hers—lifts off the lot like a lyric you hear too often. And tonight (like always) the drive is jammed: demon-mobiles nosed up on the grass, triple-parked down the lane, engines idling, windows fogged, bass leaking. Partygoers spill out in clumps—heels clicking, wings brushing, someone laughing too hard at nothing. There are no guards at the gate. There are never guards here; only cleaning and cooking staff doing the impossible. A catering van coughs by the fountain. A dish cart rattles. A cook in a stained apron jogs past carrying a tray big enough to feed a block. A cleaner angles around the mess with a mop like a weapon, the floor already sticky with good intentions.
I weave through the cars. Hands slap roof metal to the beat. Someone recognizes nobody; everyone pretends they do. The scent of Beelzejuice lingers above the exhaust—a gold sting in the nose. Lanterns hum and taste me; the gate opens on its own. No bouncers. No checkpoints. Just the hive, forever arriving.
Inside, it's overcrowded by design: foyer packed with guests who never left, guests who just arrived, and staff threading needle-paths with trays and bins. The marble drinks light; chandeliers bloom comb-bright; laughter ricochets off portraits that look like they're flirting back. Cooks in crisp whites shuttle between kitchen doors and staging tables. Cleaners ghost-mop spills before they become lawsuits. No one at a post. No one blocking doorways. The place runs on momentum and panic, which is to say, it runs.
Archie would normally intercept me by the second archway—small routines that kept mornings survivable. The space where he should be tastes like the absence of sugar: flat, clean, a little sharp. It shouldn't sting. It does.
Buzz.
[Tex]: Need me to swing by later?
[R2BEE2]: From my own house?
[Tex]: Careful, these mansions'll eat you alive
[R2BEE2]: This one just gives them cavities
[Tex]: Same shit man
He lets the quiet sit. That's another thing he's good at—being present without crowding. Friend, not fortune-teller.
I cut along the wall, skimming past a mountain of plated pastries and a pyramid of comb-waffles lacquered to a mirror. A cook barks times into the air; a cleaner swoops after a tipped glass like a hawk. No guards. No muscle. Just the people who make messes and the people who erase them, playing tag.
The corridor to the grand-dining room breathes gold even with the sconces dim. The marble veins catch leftover light like the stone learned to store noise. If I breathe deep enough I can taste a Thursday two years ago—laughter, a toast, a sugar-smear kiss on a rim. I don't breathe deep.
The doors swing on a long table arranged like a sermon to excess. Tonight it's a staging surface—cooks swooping in to trade empty trays for full, cleaners wiping edges to keep the gloss honest. Glazed meats, fruit that keeps light prisoner, pastries with edible glitter pretending to be stars. Comb-waffles cooling in rows; you can hear the syrup set if you listen. The smell is a wall. The part of me that finds safety in waste relaxes; the part that hates waste wants to set the room on fire.
Buzz.
[Tex]: btw she didn't forget
[R2BEE2]: she's bad at... y'know
[Tex]: trying tho
[R2BEE2]: Trying is a big word
[Tex]: for some people it's a mountain
The corridor breathes gold even with the sconces dim. Hexes run the length of the walls like a hive diagram someone made into architecture. Overhead, the ceiling panels are honeycomb plates; light pools inside each cell and bleeds to the next when the bass outside hits. A sweep of spotlights from the lawn stencils moving hexes across the honey-glass windows, like the sky itself is pressed against the mansion. (It usually is.)
The grand-dining room isn't empty; it's a staging flood. Cooks swap trays under comb-shaped chandeliers. Cleaners ghost the perimeter with mops and towels, plucking beer cans from window sills like bad fruit. A couple is half-asleep under the tablecloth at seat fourteen; another couple is not asleep in the alcove by the hive-pillar. No guards. There are never guards—just the people who make messes and the people who erase them, doing laps. The hive runs itself loud.
At the far end of the table: a small, crookedly wrapped box. Tape wrong. Folds wrong. Ugly on purpose. In a mansion that looks like a giant beehive set down in the middle of Gluttony with spotlights raking its shell, "ugly" is the best camouflage you can buy. I don't touch it. I let my antennae buzz and then go still.
Buzz.
[Tex]: You make it inside?
[R2BEE2]: Shoulder to shoulder. Hive's overflowing.
[Tex]: Yeah. That place never sleeps.
[Tex]: Want me to check on you?
[R2BEE2]: You'll have to crawl over six drunk Hellhounds and a waffle pyramid.
[Tex]: I've seen worse.
[Tex]: Eat something that isn't liquid.
I pocket the phone. A cleaner eases past me to pry two unconscious demons off a velvet chaise with the same patience you use for stickers on glass. The hall outside roars; the hex-panel ceiling passes the sound along like a drum. The mansion is the loudest body in Gluttony—largest, brightest, crowned like a beehive—and it never stops breathing.
I set my phone on the linen beside the crooked box and leave both where they can stare at each other. The glaze on the comb-waffles hardens from glass to candy; you can hear it if you listen. I don't. I step back into the hall where the hive keeps arriving and pretend I'm just another part of the pattern the ceiling already knows.
The hall takes me in and tries to sell me a mood. I take only what I need.
Two fingers, a twist—light threads off my Bub, thin as sugar glass. It wraps my wrist, climbs my forearm, snaps into a gold cuff. Shirt deepens to hive-black; shoulders pick up a comb-gloss when spotlights change lanes. Jacket shimmers into hex sequins that drink light and spit it back in warm shards; lapels edged like hers when she's about to raise the roof. Pants sharpen. Boots gloss. Last touch: a soft honey halo under skin—enough to sell the silhouette, not enough to bend a room.
The crowd sees color and shape and moves without knowing why. Staff see me.
A tray teeters at a choke point; I step, flash the jacket's edge, lift two fingers. The server ghosts through and gives me a chin-tick so small it might be a blink. A bottle thinks about leaping; I'm there first with thumb under base, napkin under lip, coaster under the wobbly leg. Across, a cook taps knuckles twice on steel—kitchen Morse for thanks—and keeps calling times. I kneel, swipe a sugar crescent before a heel finds it, fold the towel inward, and drop it onto a rolling cart. The cleaner pushing it lets a half-smile flicker across her mouth, then steers on.
At the bar's back corner, a demon's folded into himself, air around him thin-blue—cracking, almost-sober in the worst way. A big no-no in this place.
Whis: You want to not feel that for a while?
He nods, down in the dumps. Dishevled, young. I can't make it better without making him act stupid in the long run. So, I just do what Beelzebub would. Let them drunk up.
Whis: Sip. Head back, not forward, itta' hurt less.
Gold liquid rises from his jaws, barfing. I summon a bag and step away so he doesn't have to throw up on me.
The grand-dining table runs like a runway under comb chandeliers. Glazed meats breathe. Fruit traps light. Comb-waffles cool in ranks; if you're quiet you can hear the glaze settle with a candy crackle. At the far end, tucked where only I'll keep seeing it, the crooked box sits ugly on purpose. I don't give it a pause. Choosing not to is still a choice.
By the hive-window, a drunk is sliding down a velvet arm like wax. I lift his feet onto the couch, slip a folded linen under his cheek before the fabric learns too much.
Whis: Head back. Eyes on the light. Here's water.
He lets gravity decide and manages a laugh at the ceiling, surprised he can. I plant a Beelzejuice within reach and carry on.
A runner hits the narrow pass with too many plates. Two-beat clap. Elbow opens a lane. Dancers drift as if it was their idea. As he clears, he pings the rim of the top plate—a bright note that says we engineered that silence together.
I loop the long way—staff corridor, kitchen heat, the spine of the mansion where it keeps from falling apart. Cooks toss pans like coin tricks. Honey hisses on iron. The ceiling ferries the bass along its hex panels like a relay baton. A bar-back glances at my cuff, then my face, and without a word lands a fresh highball at the back edge of his station for later.
[Tex]: ten minutes
[R2BEE2]: garden side door. busted hinge
[Tex]: heard
I pass the dining room one last time. The crooked box waits where it waited. I don't look at it. I know where it is. I know where I'm going. I keep to the seam and make space where people don't know they need it yet—the way she would, but quiet—and the ceiling moves the sound along without asking me to carry it. For tonight, that sits right in my bones.
The hall is full and loud. People push through like it's normal. Staff weave around them and keep the place alive. I don't touch the box. I leave my phone beside it and walk.
Two fingers. Small switch. My clothes shift to her colors: black, gold trim, a light edge on the cuffs. Not bright. Just enough to pass. It helps people move without asking.
A server wobbles at a corner.
Whis: Careful Sulivan.
He slides through and gives me a quick nod. Another cleaner is already mopping the spot he almost made. We keep going.
Buzz in my pocket. I check the screen under the table edge.
[Tex]: side door. two mins.
I take the staff corridor and go back to Tex. He's a good friend to all, undeniable. He tries to be there, ever since he and Beelzebub became a thing.
Vortex: Man, you move like you got all night.
Whis: Had to help with a party dog.
Vortex: Yeah, sounds about right.
He taps the bag.
Vortex: Brought you some grub. Don't start fussin'.
Whis: I won't.
It's chips, candy, and more normal food. I eat fast, then slower. It steadies me.
Vortex: Feelin' steadier now?
Whis: Yeah.
Vortex: You wanna walk it off?
Whis: Walk and talk.
Vortex: Heh, that's the best kinda talk anyway.
We go back in on the service side. Same crowd noise, but thinner here. It's steps, trays, and orders. The honeycomb ceiling carries the bass, not the other way around.
Vortex: Bee was askin' how you're doin'.
Whis: The whole ring heard her.
Vortex: For real, she pulled me aside. Twice. No joke.
Whis: Cute. The bottles got more attention.
Vortex: C'mon, don't do her dirty like that.
Whis: I am. She loves being Beelzebub. People get warm from that. I'm just closer to the heat.
We turn a tight corner. A runner with too many plates gets stuck. I point left and my Bub whirls to stop the plates from shattering. People slide. He goes through catches the plates, continuing hurriedly. Thanks. Gone.
Vortex: Bee's good with the big crowds, but one-on-one? Not really her thing.
Whis: I know. I grew up watching her dodge small rooms. Good for the show. Bad for kids.
Vortex: You need her, not her act. I hear you.
Whis: That's exactly what I get. Poster, lights, schedule. I'm done earning five minutes like it's a prize.
Vortex: I ain't asking you to be quiet.
Whis: I'm done being quiet.
We pass the balcony over the foyer. Packed. Music up. Security working. A cleaner wraps a towel around broken glass before feet find it. We drop back to the staff level.
Vortex: Did you see the box?
Whis: It saw me.
Vortex: She wrapped it herself.
Whis: With the wrong tape. And someone else put it down so she didn't have to stop moving. Message received.
Vortex: She figured you'd like the gesture.
Whis: I would have liked her. Five minutes. No mic. No toast. Just her. That's past tense.
Vortex: You can say you don't care all you want, but the way you talk? Sounds like you still do.
Whis: Yeah.
We hit a narrow run to the grand dining room. A server wobbles again; I steady the tray with my lower arms and let go. He breathes out and keeps going.
Vortex: I get bein' angry, but don't go burnin' down the bridge if part of you still wants to cross it.
Whis: The bridge was never there. Just planks and a note that said "jump."
Vortex: Don't throw that on me, man.
Whis: Like what.
Vortex: You don't gotta test me, I'm not here to judge.
Whis: Eighteen years of tests. I get to grade one.
Vortex: You're run down, I can see it. Just don't go bangin' your head on brick walls, aight?
Whis: I'm not. I'm walking past them.
He lets that sit. We keep pace with the staff. Cooks pass with pans. A bar-back hands off an empty bin. I flick a clear bead to gather stray glass chips and let it drop. The cleaner pushing the bin bumps it to my shin. Thanks. No words.
Vortex: You've taught yourself a lot, but you don't gotta keep carrying it all alone.
Whis: I had to. The only people in my life were the ones who had to scrape to rise. They showed up anyway. I learned from them. Music, fighting, honey tricks, how to move a crowd without talking. That isn't gratitude. That's work. I'm done being décor.
Vortex: Nobody worth listenin' to thinks you're just for show. You're more than that.
Whis: The room says it. Every night.
Vortex: She don't always get it right, but she is tryin'. That's real, even if it don't feel like enough.
Whis: I tried for eighteen years. I'm done chasing someone who's paid to be wanted by everyone else.
Vortex: You mean to tell me there's nothin' left you want from her? Not even deep down inside?
Whis: Nothing. Not now. Not later.
We step into the long hall that feeds back toward the dining room. Warm lights. Staff lanes open and close fast.
Vortex: She could still step up, if you gave her the chance. I'm not sayin' it'd be easy—but it's not impossible. She is-
Whis: No. If you're about to say "she's proud," save it. "She sees you," save it. "She's trying," I know. I don't want her sorry-ass apology, I don't want her charity hugs, I don't want her fake-ass love just 'cause she finally remembered I'm not a piece of lost luggage. Nah, eat a dick with that. hell, she probably wrote my birthday on a sticky note, slapped it on a wine bottle, and called it mothering. Sour move!
Vortex nervously gives me a hand signal, but I can't focus.
I can't.
Whis: I don't want a box. I don't want a song. I don't want a speech. I don't want a drink with my name spelled wrong. I don't want the crowd pretending it loves me because the queen glanced my way. I gave her my whole life to look my way, and all I have to my knowledge that she cared are staff stories. I don't wanna be the queen bee's bastard anymore. Congrats, ma, you can keep your crown and choke on it! I'm done! Turns out I'm not the heir — just the practice kid. The beta test. The free sample that got left on the counter to rot. Congrats, mom, you raised a clearance item.
Tex does the gesture again, sharper. He shifts back half a step.
Whis: Do you have any idea what it feels like to beg for crumbs of love so long that when you finally get offered a feast, all you can taste is the hunger that damn near killed you?
My voice breaks.
Whis: And since we're clear—if she stood still right now and said my name, I'd keep moving. I'm not waiting. I'm not hoping. I am not giving her a chance again! Not anymore! Lucifer, even Mammon's more of a parent than her. Mammon. The guy who'd sell his own ass for pocket change. At least he knows I'm alive. And he does everything for profits!
Vortex's eyes go past me.
The talk dips around us. Heat changes on my skin. The side glass throws a reflection I don't need. I see the brighter gold visibly from behind me, not my own.
She's behind us.
Close enough to have heard everything. Quiet enough to make the party sound wrong. My hands go cold. My tongue sticks to my teeth. I take a slow breath because my chest forgot how.
Vortex: Hey-hey. Breathe, kid.
Whis: You know how many birthdays she's missed?
I blew up. I didn't mean to.
I just can't confront her.
Whis: I am breathing. Bye Tex.
I can't stay there anymore. So i just move. If I wanted to salvage, I'd have let her reach me. But I know she doesn't have the words.
And I don't want to see her.
Not anymore.
I can't help but tear up. Mentally and physcially.
Turns out I was never the heir. Just the bastard draft copy they scribbled on before tossing in the fire.
I'm the fucking practice. The warm-up act. The demo tape nobody listens to. The fuckin' sour cream of children.
Heaven hasn't met me. And I know, they hate me.