Bitterness.

The taste of it, the smell of it, the feel of it.

I wasn't gonna be that one. I wasn't gonna be the bitter one.

Neither do I intend on being the sweet one. Nor the completely tasteless one.

No. I want flavor. Lots of flavor.

Will come back, she says. Don't worry, she says. I'll be home soon, she says.

Drain me of my flavor, she will not. I forbid it.


The bouncy melody of the phone alarm would be a wonderful start to a day filled with happiness, rainbows, and sunshine. Today, it's just ironic.

A heavy hand comes smashing down on the cell, trying to shut it up to no avail. The melody continues, mocking the hand in its defeat.

The Kyrii sits himself up, eyes out of focus and the side of his mouth streaked with drool. He rubs his tired eyes, and disregards the drool - too exhausted to even bother with it. Slipping out of bed in a droopy manner, he then re-aligns his spine forcefully. He cracks a couple vertebrae into place, then lets himself relax for a moment, arms drooping. He then quickly straightens himself back up again.

The floor-length mirror across the room in focus, he starts towards it. "You lookin' at me, punk?" he challenges it. He walks up to the mirror, now toe-to-glass with it. "You wanna start with me, huh? What are you doin' with your life, Razor? Look at you..." and thus he continues yet another morning ritual of self-interrogation.

After said rituals, and freshening himself up for the day, Razor browses through his vast, and colorful, collection of clothing. Some days he knew just what to wear, and some days he asks a friend over to decide for him. Other days, he'd just close his eyes and pick one at random. Appearance matters, he keeps reminding himself. Whatever he wore, he had to work it.

Razor leaves his house with a fluorescent pink shirt on, as well as a false expression to match. Both suited his alarm better than they suited him. He reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone, wanting to change that dreaded alarm ringtone. His cellphone starts to play another tune, right as he pulls it out. The sudden music makes him jump, as if the cellphone knew what he wanted to do. He calms down, after taking a breath, then looks at the caller ID. Some telemarketer. He taps the "decline" button, then proceeds to his workplace.


What better business than risky business? Smuggler's Cove has always been like a second home to Razor, ever since he first discovered it. He had not started working here up until just last year, but it had been his main social dwelling for the past decade, or so. Everyone here knows him, accepts him, understands him, and has been there for him when he was in need. The shadiest of people, sure, but more of a family than Razor had ever known.

Family.

The word felt like a stab, rang in his ears like a shriek, and tasted bitter upon his tongue. He avoided anything to do with this word at all costs. Christmas, Thanksgiving, Father's Day...He tried to just treat them like any other day, but failed to prevent himself from feeling remorse. He tried hard not to be so morbid and cold about the idea of 'family' on most days. He had nothing against anyone else being with or having love for family. No, in fact he was happy for them. Jealous, even.