Status: New.
Emo Prince Meets Emo Princess and They Drown the World With Their Emoness
three.
Eric retreated to his room, what he called his Dark Domain of Pain; it screamed him. It was black, just like his heart, with Mikey Way posters all over the spacious walls. The ceiling-to-floor windows were covered in black – black – out curtains, to keep the hideous light of day that threatened to burn his emaciated shell alive out.
He turned up his iPod all the way up, the sound of half-gay men screaming their lungs out about suicide and shit. He sang along, mumbling words that honestly nobody could understand. He would look the lyrics up on Google later, but right now, his heart was too heavy because of some stupid shit he couldn’t even remember.
“HURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!” Eric grunted along with the song, trying to sound like his heros from The Devil Wears Prada. They were majorly H@rD0R3, like he was. He could totally relate. Anyone could relate with the sad, emo prince, right? Not.
He stopped that gurgling sound – or whatever the fuck it was – to listen to his parents behind the door, probably gossiping about how fat their child was or how flippy and cute his hair was. He knew that they loved to gossip about how awesome he was – how narcissistic.
“…look at Alexander of Sweden,” his father was saying, probably walking the halls with his wife. She was probably looking at him like he was Mikey Way and she was a fangirl. A fangirl with a fat girl’s name. “King at eighteen, settled down with a nice girl. Eric, on the other hand…”
“He graduated, Constantine!” Eric screamed, thinking that it would hurt his father more of he called him by his first name. Not that it did, but he could try. He always thought his father was only his adoptive father and that his real father and mother would come and save him from this treacherous state.
His mother sort of ignored him; she was getting sick of these childish antics. But then again, there was nothing really they could do. The psychologists were in Australia for three months. They were the only ones who could break through Eric’s scarred psyche and into his messed up brain.
He’s decided.
He would kill himself tonight.
Like we haven’t heard that deal before!
-
While his parents were asleep, Eric lugged himself and his guitar – which was decorated with various band stickers, including a My Little Pony one - out to the spacious balcony overlooking the dreary ocean. It reminded him of how dreary he was. It brought actual emo tears to his eyes. He strummed a silly song that he wrote, like, fifteen seconds around. It was loud and terrible enough for the entire kingdom to gossip about for weeks to come.
“Not good enough,” he sobbed as he chucked his guitar over the edge. It hit the rocks below with a loud crack. It sounded just like his heart shattering.
He sobbed a bit more, sulked a bit more, and dragged his feet a bit more as he walked to the docks that held the extensive yachts that his father prized. One of them was called SS Triton, which was the one that his father prized the most. He liked naming things after all things valiant, like Greek Gods or mermen.
Irony, much?
He would take that one. It wasn’t like his father knew – or honestly really cared – that it was gone. Worst scenario he’d get another one and name it the SS Triton Two.
He didn’t really know how to drive it, but he guessed he knew enough. Leaving out all the silly details and a suicide letter, he rode out to the stark middle of the ocean.
He stood on edge of the boat and sobbed some more, screaming, “I FEEL THE MALICE IN MY VEINS! MY HEART SWELLS WITH HATRED IN YOUR NAME! CUT MY WRISTS AND HOPE TO DIE! MY WOUNDS HAVE HEALED BY NOW, BUT YOU CAN STILL SEE THE SCARS! I HATE MY FUCKING LIIIIIIFE!” Like that morning, he calmed down for a moment, huffing and puffing.
Then, with one last flick of a razor to his skinny arm, he hopped overboard.
Dun, dun, dun….
He turned up his iPod all the way up, the sound of half-gay men screaming their lungs out about suicide and shit. He sang along, mumbling words that honestly nobody could understand. He would look the lyrics up on Google later, but right now, his heart was too heavy because of some stupid shit he couldn’t even remember.
“HURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!” Eric grunted along with the song, trying to sound like his heros from The Devil Wears Prada. They were majorly H@rD0R3, like he was. He could totally relate. Anyone could relate with the sad, emo prince, right? Not.
He stopped that gurgling sound – or whatever the fuck it was – to listen to his parents behind the door, probably gossiping about how fat their child was or how flippy and cute his hair was. He knew that they loved to gossip about how awesome he was – how narcissistic.
“…look at Alexander of Sweden,” his father was saying, probably walking the halls with his wife. She was probably looking at him like he was Mikey Way and she was a fangirl. A fangirl with a fat girl’s name. “King at eighteen, settled down with a nice girl. Eric, on the other hand…”
“He graduated, Constantine!” Eric screamed, thinking that it would hurt his father more of he called him by his first name. Not that it did, but he could try. He always thought his father was only his adoptive father and that his real father and mother would come and save him from this treacherous state.
His mother sort of ignored him; she was getting sick of these childish antics. But then again, there was nothing really they could do. The psychologists were in Australia for three months. They were the only ones who could break through Eric’s scarred psyche and into his messed up brain.
He’s decided.
He would kill himself tonight.
Like we haven’t heard that deal before!
-
While his parents were asleep, Eric lugged himself and his guitar – which was decorated with various band stickers, including a My Little Pony one - out to the spacious balcony overlooking the dreary ocean. It reminded him of how dreary he was. It brought actual emo tears to his eyes. He strummed a silly song that he wrote, like, fifteen seconds around. It was loud and terrible enough for the entire kingdom to gossip about for weeks to come.
“Not good enough,” he sobbed as he chucked his guitar over the edge. It hit the rocks below with a loud crack. It sounded just like his heart shattering.
He sobbed a bit more, sulked a bit more, and dragged his feet a bit more as he walked to the docks that held the extensive yachts that his father prized. One of them was called SS Triton, which was the one that his father prized the most. He liked naming things after all things valiant, like Greek Gods or mermen.
Irony, much?
He would take that one. It wasn’t like his father knew – or honestly really cared – that it was gone. Worst scenario he’d get another one and name it the SS Triton Two.
He didn’t really know how to drive it, but he guessed he knew enough. Leaving out all the silly details and a suicide letter, he rode out to the stark middle of the ocean.
He stood on edge of the boat and sobbed some more, screaming, “I FEEL THE MALICE IN MY VEINS! MY HEART SWELLS WITH HATRED IN YOUR NAME! CUT MY WRISTS AND HOPE TO DIE! MY WOUNDS HAVE HEALED BY NOW, BUT YOU CAN STILL SEE THE SCARS! I HATE MY FUCKING LIIIIIIFE!” Like that morning, he calmed down for a moment, huffing and puffing.
Then, with one last flick of a razor to his skinny arm, he hopped overboard.
Dun, dun, dun….
♠ ♠ ♠
Uh-huh.