in the end we still pretend.

Harlowe D'Angelo · 10-08-2010, 07:04 AM

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THIS BEEOTCH IS A ZOMBIE, LOLOL

Harlowe did not know his father very well, but it was difficult to gauge whether proximity in his formative months would have done much to alter this; his relationship with his mother had changed drastically in the time since she had left, and the youth no longer thought he knew her quite so well as he had initially considered. Her departure was completely unforeseen; the chocolate-masked youth could have predicted it no more than he could any other natural disaster or act of god. “Of course. Thank you,” the youth replied, his manners as mechanical and automated as any other parts of his interaction—they were learned laboriously and through intensive studies rather than naturally conditioned.

The youth complied quite willingly, his exhaustion easily forgotten with the reserves of youthful energy he possessed as any other child his age, and he trotted with his father almost eagerly, though this eagerness was likely a result of hunger and a desire to see the Dreams territory once more, the place he had awkwardly visited a few times in his hazy early memories. “Has it changed much?” he ventured, remembering the ghastly awkwardness of the family gathering. He should have been overjoyed to be surrounded by so many of his blood, but knowing he shared kinship with those strangers made the occasion no less uncomfortable for him. It was a crowd, and crowds were something the chocolate-dipped male could not handle well at all.

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