harper king / d7 / cb 2 (fin)

He never knew what it feels like to belong to a place. His heart is vagabond, and all he has is a goody two shoes sister who makes it her sacred duty to seem perfect. But, both of them understand that at the roots of their flowering lives lies rot and rancidness; an underlying decay which cannot be killed without sacrificing the whole plant.

“Have you eaten, Harpty Dumpty?”

“Fuck off, Priscilla.”

The dark history is how the pair's estranged father left his one night stand alone, their mother, and they grew up fatherless.

When Harper reached ten, she, infuriated with the herculean weight of the burdens she held, succumbed to her mental illness. He visits the woman every now and then, playing poker,


Perhaps, it is possible that he belongs to the bars' makeshift stages of hay or wooden crates, the bronze microphone that doesn't seem to work much, and the lyrics he'd write in the afternoon and perform at midnight.

Or perhaps the things happen to be vice versa and they belong to him:

the stage, the audience, the melodies, the poetry.


All he knows is the number of cigarettes he needs to smoke for an immaculate, raspy voice, the sharp strings of a croaking guitar, the directions and the turns he needs to take in order to get to mom in the psych ward,

and how useless fathers can be.