thelionscrimsonclaws:

a-misunderstanding-my-love:

thelionscrimsonclaws:

a-misunderstanding-my-love:

thelionscrimsonclaws:

My temper is extraordinarily foul this day….approach with caution.

Don’t make me regret whatever horrible thing happens to you if you do.

Oh, my lord the harecatcher. So frightening, so intimidating. 

Bring it on, you piece of shit. 

I pity you….don’t ask me to elaborate.  *turns away and goes back to writing, ignoring you and your cry for attention*

Excellent. The feeling is mutual. 

Non, I don’t think the feeling is mutual….far from it.

I was always meant for something greater and I was going to obtain it one way or another. You provided the catalyst…descriptions of Paris and beyond, the spark that became a wildfire inside me. I had to go and I would have done so with or without you.

You, who attached yourself to the illiterate, ignorant but hopeful youth that I was. You, who disgraced your father and dashed all his hopes for you. You who clung to the shadow of greatness that was Mozart for mere scraps. You who dissolved your dark thoughts at the bottom of a bottle every night. You who languished in obscurity and petty jealousies.

I dragged you everywhere when I should have let you lay in that elaborate sarcophagus you’d already created for yourself long before we were ever really close, waiting to die….so that you’d earn your adoration after your early demise. “So sad, so beautiful, such a promising life cut short!”

And THAT is why I pity you…second fiddle! You are petty, jealous and malcontent with anything and everything you ever wanted! I was too much for you and when I tried lifting you towards greatness with me, you backhanded me with your “madness” that was an utter lie! You weren’t mad! You were only more fully yourself…..even more the pitiable soul and when I saw this, I knew there was to be no help for you on this Earth that I could provide to satisfy you, toxic creature!

Spare me the poisoned words that would drip from your lips in response. They are so much mist against my coat. The cold breath of an angry ghost against one whose mind is currently the father of Winter, of Death. You cannot hurt me any longer, even when I can spare you a memory.