johannes clarke ; cbday 1 done | 1

I'm a good son.

Wrapping bandages around bruised knuckles, kissing the back of my hand before I throw a punch. The only time I've seen dad smile is when I've drawn blood. I hate the feeling of it, but I think you learn to love the important things. I'm well suited to violence, it's made a home in me.

Heir to a fallen fortune, it's no secret that I was born to die. I'm okay with that, 'cause honestly it's worse when you don't. I see it in that vacant look my father gets, trailing his fingertips along the scars embedded in the back of his hand. He's got all these missing pieces, parts of him that didn't survive his father.

I'm not gonna end up like that.

I've hatched a careful plan, saving coins to burn them on absurd luxury. Gel to slick back my hair, bleach to turn it pretty colors. Silk ties and leather gloves, the kind of shit you only bother to buy when you've got cash to burn.

We don't, but I'm prettier when I starve now.

This is less a legacy and more a haunting. The weight of it is no kinder, just means I have a lot more work to do. Building up a broken name until it actually means something.

Because then maybe I'll mean something too.