Status: New.
Emo Prince Meets Emo Princess and They Drown the World With Their Emoness
one.
When Prince Eric of Belfry – which, by the way, is somewhere in Europe – woke up that morning, he knew this day was going to suck Mikey Way’s balls.
He sighed overdramatically and pushed a greasy lock of hair from his emo, tearstained face. He felt his teeny, tiny bleeding heart shattering all over again. He’d spent the entire night sobbing to the Avenged Sevenfold album, thinking about the night that The Rev shook his hand when AX7 was graciously invited to the castle by order of the Prince. But now he’s gone! Gone, I tell you!
Ahem.
He pulled out his mega expensive laptop from under his bed and logged onto his VampireFreaks.com account. He sighed overdramatically again as he flipped through his new buddy requests. 1000, it declared near the Friend Requests button. Of course. When you’re a prince, your VampireFreaks and Myspace gets majorly fl00000ded. Y3r k3wl like that.
“Fuck that,” Eric said, inserting the stereotypical, emo upward inflection at the end of his sentences. He smacked his laptop shut and went forth to carpe diem, like his mother said cheerfully. The ungrateful fucker gave her the bird while she wasn’t looking. His father insisted he wear the uniform and gloves that he bought him just one bleeding time.
“But it’s not from Hot Topic,” Eric whined.
Whatever.
He donned the uniform, trying not to grab the razor from near his bed and carve FATASS into his skinny arm. He stared hard into the mirror, trying not to cry again and smear his meticulously done eyeliner. He wanted to look just like his hero, Frank Iero. He looked totally Welcome to The Black Parade, though. He did good so far.
He sighed overdramatically again and walked out of his dark, desolate domain, ignoring the servants and majordomos’ bows and curtsies. When they weren’t looking, he flipped them.
He made it to the grand dining room with time to spare. He sat in his usual spot and looked around. Why the fuck do you need such a long ass table when it’s only the three of us? he thought with distaste as he pulled out his black iPod, pressed PLAY and allowed Suicide Silence to shatter his ears drums. He could relate to them, y’know. Like, their music tears apart his soul.
Like, grow some fucking balls.
“Eric, turn that blasted music down!” Eric’s father, King Constantine of Belfry snapped when he and his queen, Bess, entered the dining room. The King sat at his usual spot at the head of the table, looking all regal-like while Bess sat in front of her son, who was currently tearing the earbuds from his ears and pouting like a loser. Eric thought that, while he looked like a nice blend of his mother and father, he was adopted.
How emo.
“So,” the King continued. He was very awkward near his son. He asked the stupidest, vaguest question he could think of: “Do you like the uniform?”
“Hate it,” Eric muttered.
The King was used to this, sadly enough. Any other father would slit his wrists. That’s the sperm his mother should’ve swallowed, he knew it. It was one big mistake; it wasn’t too late to change his poor, misunderstood son.
“Well, you look very dashing in it, darling,” his mother quipped, trying to cheer her son up.
“BESS IS A FAT GIRL’S NAME, MOM!” Eric screamed at the top of his lungs.
“Eric!” his father snapped. He should’ve listened to Eric’s psychologists also, allowing Eric to get some help and major Ritalin. But no.
“The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone,” Eric muttered in his father’s direction, letting his emo tears flow down his face. It signified how pained he was inside.
Truly a disturbing sight.
His father ignored the façade. “Eric, I think it’s high time we find you a wife.”
“Don’t want one,” Eric sniffled. “I don’t need one. DON’T TRY TO FIX MY BROKEN HEART, DAD!”
“Don’t you want to be happy, sweetheart?” his mother asked, sighing.
“FUCK THE WORLD! I SPILLED MY GUTS FOR ROTTEN SLUTS! I LIVE IN PAIN! ALL WET FROM RAIN! I LOVE YOU BUT I STILL HATE YOU!” Eric screamed again. “IF YOU REALLY LOVE ME THEN STOP HURTING ME! KISS ME WITH A BULLET!" Then he sat back down in his chair, huffing and puffing like a bull.
The Queen said nothing.
The King, however, wanted to find his gun to end it all.
"This is going to be a long breakfast,” he muttered.
He sighed overdramatically and pushed a greasy lock of hair from his emo, tearstained face. He felt his teeny, tiny bleeding heart shattering all over again. He’d spent the entire night sobbing to the Avenged Sevenfold album, thinking about the night that The Rev shook his hand when AX7 was graciously invited to the castle by order of the Prince. But now he’s gone! Gone, I tell you!
Ahem.
He pulled out his mega expensive laptop from under his bed and logged onto his VampireFreaks.com account. He sighed overdramatically again as he flipped through his new buddy requests. 1000, it declared near the Friend Requests button. Of course. When you’re a prince, your VampireFreaks and Myspace gets majorly fl00000ded. Y3r k3wl like that.
“Fuck that,” Eric said, inserting the stereotypical, emo upward inflection at the end of his sentences. He smacked his laptop shut and went forth to carpe diem, like his mother said cheerfully. The ungrateful fucker gave her the bird while she wasn’t looking. His father insisted he wear the uniform and gloves that he bought him just one bleeding time.
“But it’s not from Hot Topic,” Eric whined.
Whatever.
He donned the uniform, trying not to grab the razor from near his bed and carve FATASS into his skinny arm. He stared hard into the mirror, trying not to cry again and smear his meticulously done eyeliner. He wanted to look just like his hero, Frank Iero. He looked totally Welcome to The Black Parade, though. He did good so far.
He sighed overdramatically again and walked out of his dark, desolate domain, ignoring the servants and majordomos’ bows and curtsies. When they weren’t looking, he flipped them.
He made it to the grand dining room with time to spare. He sat in his usual spot and looked around. Why the fuck do you need such a long ass table when it’s only the three of us? he thought with distaste as he pulled out his black iPod, pressed PLAY and allowed Suicide Silence to shatter his ears drums. He could relate to them, y’know. Like, their music tears apart his soul.
Like, grow some fucking balls.
“Eric, turn that blasted music down!” Eric’s father, King Constantine of Belfry snapped when he and his queen, Bess, entered the dining room. The King sat at his usual spot at the head of the table, looking all regal-like while Bess sat in front of her son, who was currently tearing the earbuds from his ears and pouting like a loser. Eric thought that, while he looked like a nice blend of his mother and father, he was adopted.
How emo.
“So,” the King continued. He was very awkward near his son. He asked the stupidest, vaguest question he could think of: “Do you like the uniform?”
“Hate it,” Eric muttered.
The King was used to this, sadly enough. Any other father would slit his wrists. That’s the sperm his mother should’ve swallowed, he knew it. It was one big mistake; it wasn’t too late to change his poor, misunderstood son.
“Well, you look very dashing in it, darling,” his mother quipped, trying to cheer her son up.
“BESS IS A FAT GIRL’S NAME, MOM!” Eric screamed at the top of his lungs.
“Eric!” his father snapped. He should’ve listened to Eric’s psychologists also, allowing Eric to get some help and major Ritalin. But no.
“The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone,” Eric muttered in his father’s direction, letting his emo tears flow down his face. It signified how pained he was inside.
Truly a disturbing sight.
His father ignored the façade. “Eric, I think it’s high time we find you a wife.”
“Don’t want one,” Eric sniffled. “I don’t need one. DON’T TRY TO FIX MY BROKEN HEART, DAD!”
“Don’t you want to be happy, sweetheart?” his mother asked, sighing.
“FUCK THE WORLD! I SPILLED MY GUTS FOR ROTTEN SLUTS! I LIVE IN PAIN! ALL WET FROM RAIN! I LOVE YOU BUT I STILL HATE YOU!” Eric screamed again. “IF YOU REALLY LOVE ME THEN STOP HURTING ME! KISS ME WITH A BULLET!" Then he sat back down in his chair, huffing and puffing like a bull.
The Queen said nothing.
The King, however, wanted to find his gun to end it all.
"This is going to be a long breakfast,” he muttered.
♠ ♠ ♠
Yep.