A Meat Sack With An Expiration Date

"You can't keep me locked up here forever!" The guy, who I assume is the rebel leader who has killed dear Polly, spits out. I can make out a slight accent in his words. Maybe elven? But noting from his round ears, he is no elf. Hmm. Interesting.

The Dark King only laughs at his remark. "Oh, boyo," he says, dismissively flapping his hand. "It is funny you mention that. See, I am forever, whereas you are a meat sack with an expiration date." He lets his eyes drift over the dark walls of my room, which are decorated with the various paintings I made to relieve my stress and anxiety, before smiling down at my pathetic, sweaty, teary, and barely breathing state.

"I will let someone bring you some more paint, brushes, and some canvases tomorrow. Seeing you have no room on your walls anymore." Father nods at himself and looks me right in the eyes, grinning widely. "Now, Ta-ta," and with that being said, he leaves my chambers, locking the door behind him.

The young man, thrown at my bedroom floor, staggers up from the ground. Eying his condition, I would say that's a fucking foolish thing to do. But I'll stay out of his business. They are not my wounds; he can deal with them himself. I'm staying out of his business.

I watch him with curiosity. His eyes are dark, maybe even onyx. I can't really tell from the distance between us. His hair, darker than a starless night sky, is half long and hangs in his face. His posture is lanky but, at the same time, assertive and powerful. He moves with a grace I imagine elves and other graceful beings to move in. His strong and a tat-bit broad nose has a thick, still bloody gash covering it. It looks painful. Dad really did a number on him.

I know how bad a beating on my Father's hands can be. Not that he ever raised a hand at me. No, the only harm he does to me is altering my memories. But I have witnessed it. Most of the time, if they even survive the beating, that is, they end up with lasting scars.

The young man's onyx eyes drift over my body, taking me in. Something about his appearance feels familiar—especially his eyes. Looking at them gives me the feeling of cover and safety. Just looking at him makes me feel like we go way back.

By the Mother, Niam.

That is fucking manticore crap.

"So," mister rebel leader breaks the silence, "who are you?"

Your worst fucking nightmare, I want to say, but I doubt it would make a big impression. Taking into account the pathetic state I'm currently in. I can't even move without whimpering, and from the outside, there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with me. He just survived a beating from my Dad and is already standing while his wounds are still bleeding. Even making a puddle on my clean floor.

Maybe he is just asserting dominance. Or he is a huge fucking idiot.

Snap out of my thoughts to see him look at me expectingly. I only roll my eyes. I am in no mood or condition to have small talk. And to be honest, it leaves me cold. This is not the first time the King has given me a "roommate." All of them perish, and I stay behind.

After losing friends time and time again, I stopped trying to befriend the people thrown at my feet. I know that, in the end, it spares me heartache. This man is no exception. Even though he killed Polly, something I highly appreciate, I can't get close.

My heart can't take any more loss.

So, I do what I can to protect the last remaining piece of my heart and roll myself with all my strength on my other side. So I am facing the painted wall, and he is staring at the scarred skin of my back.

"Well, fuck you too," he grumbles.

A small smile creeps on my lips. But the second I notice, I wipe it off. No. I can't get attached. It only ends in heartache, heartbreak, and sadness.

It always does.

It is an endless circle with no chance of escaping.