𓆩𓆪

• Heart
• Heart
• Heart

basics and scribe extras

Killian was just a little boy when his parents moved from Armenia to the U.K., led there by a family dispute that didn’t really allow them to be together and, like a fairy tale, they decided to run away before they could be separated.Even if he was born out of wedlock, Killian was raised with all the love and commodities his parents could provide; a warm home with a white-picket fence, a great garden with beautiful red roses and even a big pool that taught him, more often than not, that he tended to sink instead of float. His childhood was great, something many would envy, with no violence or lack of love.At the age of ten, wearing a little black tuxedo and shiny shoes, he saw his parents get married in a gigantic church.He was confused.Why couldn’t he be there?
Why did they kiss?
Why weren’t they looking at him?Why? Why? Why?Fat tears rolled down his cheeks as he wailed, begging to be there. Struggling with an old woman who claimed to be his grandmother to be set free. Just so he could go.His jealousy only grew in his own household.Every time he saw his parents kiss or hug or laugh together – a sick feeling swirled in his stomach. Was he bad, and that’s why he wasn’t kissed and hugged?As years flew by, Killian became more observant, more silent., trying to find the answer. The people who used to coo at him slowly drew away, observing him as if he were a bug they couldn’t comprehend anymore. He’s got quite the dark eyes, doesn’t he? They said. Doesn’t he like to play? They asked, just to get rid of him. He began to understand that people didn’t like to be looked at, so he stopped. But it kept happening.His eyes. Too black. Too smart. Just … too much.
So the boy, barely fifteen, learned to avert his gaze, even if he so desperately wanted to see, to be seen.His parents kept loving him … but that was something he no longer saw. Out of fear that if he looked, he’d hear the same thing. Too weird. Too creepy. Too dark.One day, he found something in his dad’s things: a mask.
It was horrendous. An ugly clown, with a pasty white face, dramatic red lips and blue make-up around the eyes, with tufts of coarse orange hair on top. When he put it on and stood in front of the mirror, he realized the mask hid his eyes. Finally, he had found a solution.He remembers running out of the bedroom, giggling, exclaiming happily how he had fixed the problem – but when his mother saw him, she screamed, put a hand to her chest and went as white as a sheet.… then, what was the problem? Was it him, or was it the mask? Both?His obsession to be accepted grew… but he also grew tired.
Tired of wanting and not getting. Tired of trying and failing.So he learned to take … and take … and take …He took smiles. He took lives. If they screamed, he wanted to give them a reason. If they ran, he chased – how dare they?By the age of twenty, his closet was full of skeletons.He should’ve learned to build tree houses but instead, he understood how to clean blood off his clothes, to silence people before they could scream and, indeed, to get rid of the bodies before they could expose him.Even now … nothing fills him.Nothing and no one is enough.It is no longer a matter of want, it’s a matter of need … thing is, he is a bottomless pit, always seeking, always empty.Always looking.