[Not a real] Birthday Celebration.

Sweaty palms.

He has always preferred Richton pairs to the more expensive but less durable Edmont ones. Size 9. Extra grip. Many have forgotten that gloves, apart from their normal cosmetic use, serve a much greater purpose: keeping you alive. "Say, let's pretend you're somehow traveling alone in the North Pole with your hands bare. Before you know it, you won't have any of those things called "fingers" to stick in your favorite prostitute back in that damp, dark alley in Slum Avenue anymore."

"Or how about this, you are done stabbing that rich bastard Gourdo up in 1st Street when his wife and son are out, but for some reasons, you'll leave your knife there before bailing. What comes must come, I suppose? After all, the cops won't mind swiping that knife handle under one of those fancy machines to find out what sort of sonuva***** would mutilate his victim to the point of disfigurement, will they?"

But the squirming under his feet interfered with his train of thought. Slowly lifting up the nylon cover, he cracked a small grin. "The Royal Crest of the Edgarr Family. Such a treasure to take pride in, right? Mr. Edward?...

...Or should I say, Father?"

The navy blue bag shook even more violently and desperately. All the more reason for him to enjoy this rare sight. He laughs maniacally, feasting on the painful struggle of the figure under his left foot.

"What do you have to say now, you ****face? Twelve years ago. TWELVE ****ING YEARS AGO! What do you have to say now?!"

"You tied me up and threw me into a room, threatening to stab me if I cried one more time when you were 'having the blast of your time'. You were just a ****ing drunk, Dad. A ****ing useless drunk, that's all you were."

"Mom loved us, you know? She loved us a lot. That's why she tried to cover me when you were swinging that JD's bottle of yours. I still remember the smell, surprisingly. Oh, how it stank!"

"But that wasn't enough, was it? You threw her into a corner and slammed that wretched bottle on her. Over. And over. And over. And over,"

"Not enough for you, was it? After she had bled to death, you were holding those iron stakes. An inch from my eyes. Telling me that you would poke my eyes blind if you tell anybody about what happened,"

Of course, he would have said something to someone, if his Dad wasn't a powerful and influentialdrunk. Police dared not touch him. Judges turned away anything negative about him. Good ol' authority never served anybody better than it did his dad.

He wiped up the tears and drool on his face, but still spoke in a disturbingly happy, yet broken voice:

"Guess what, Dad? Since it's your birthday today, I've decided to bring something nice for you! Sorry I had to bring you to a dark place like this, but this should only be shared between us, no?

You're my Dad after all.

If you hadn't jacked my mom up so much in that brothel room 20 years ago, I wouldn't have been here today. To celebrate your dearest 45th birthday. Right?"

As the bright, full moon shone upon his figure, the squirming man caught something in the corners of his eyes. Something familiar.

Bottle-shaped.

"Happy birthday, Dad."






Sept 15.

 

Happy Birthday <3

 

Happy Birthday! <3

/smacksthebottle

 

Did you write this?

 

Happy birthday(tl;dr)

 

Creative juice all up in this *****.

 

Good job dude.
It's very deep.
Very goth.

 

YYYYYYyyYYYY

 

It's very emo.

 

I am saddened ):

 

happy birthday..

[+1 post count trololololol]

 

yadhtrib yppah