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[thecrownedred]

White Rabbit's Crown

one.

"The love of your life awaits you in the deepest part of the hell you never believed in."

I always observe. The thing about me is, when I do that, people tend to mistaken it for some cruel stupidity that the elites are exclusively allowed to do so, but it's not. I am not one to compare with. I am better than them. Come on.

Scaly face. Vertical green eyes disguised as british blue eyes, or hazelnut if they're mixed. Royals? No, fucking shape shifters. I'd like to call them that. Friendly fire?

I call that unexclusiving yourself, if that's a word. I'm an off-screen writer, that should be a word.

Love is nothing in their faces. It's like a splash of water you get when you're at a pool party trying to enjoy yourself with a shot of patron when some rubbish garbage decides to do cannon-ball beside you to impress your not-so-perfectly sober sisters. Completely brushes it off. Basically a one night stand. That's what they believe.

Man, what if the shitshow is hell itself? This family. Everybody against everybody. Geez, give this young man a break.

"Here is your breakfast, your highness. You'll have no events, ceremonies, or tea parties to attend today." Acting like I do exist now? Why would I even bother to come in the first place?

"Your sister is covering for you. The archery field is open for you if you want to stop by."

A full english breakfast. With no beans. Too much grease, I wont need it.

Still no real conversation with the helpers. Are they even real humans or what? Too bad the government made them earn these characteristics. It's not unique at all, like at least make one of them do some personal handshakes with you or add bugs to your already perfect maple pancakes. American style.

I push the tray away, just like I always do. Didn't even get any sleep because well my in-law is in 'search' for making my sister feel better after a suitor spilled some coffee on her high-tailored baby blue dress she had always dreamed of. I could bet my great-grandfather's preserved skull in the museum, she will be turning to me, taking two hours off of my reading day. I don't have problems with it, however, time is money. Money is time. And based on my study on my own family's history, no one from my bloodline is one to be blamed for. I know what I am capable of doing and I'm not afraid to do them to my in-laws because to be frank, I never approved at allㅡShit. My doings.

Thank God it's not the 18th century because I get to drive my own car anywhere I want.

But where the fuck did I put the keys?

Geez, and this coat is too fucking heavy, abusing the stamina of your body to hide a rotting body? I'm in a kidney-pain level of not fit, why does the universe keep pushing me to do this?

Secret garage. Cliche. Could've used what my grandfather gave to me last summer to hide them but unfortunately the mansion is in Switzerland.

I scrunch my nose as the familiar rotting smell entered my nose. Not sure If I'm glad I trimmed my nose hair this morning or not, was just testing a friend's product. But clearly,

"Fucking hell.."

The only product I need right now is two and a half gallons of bleach and probably a handmade italian meat grinder created just for your daily spaghetti meatballs. Probably should tell Mr. Finch, the family butler, if only he wasn't a snitch. He's kinda self-explanatory I guess.

I kneeled down, the smell, christ, been doing this for years yet can't stand a week-and-two-days-old corpse? Well, in my murdering spree 'career' which gets me nowhere, I had never left a body for this long period of time. Well now look at this brownish astonishing marinara sauce, completely homemade, fucking dead woman's blood combined with her melting inner fluids. How could I have forgotten?

No, how could I murder someone I loved? Jane Servemore. Her €23,000 dior lipstick she never brags about is still visible right underneath those broken skin tissues. Of course she can afford it, the daughter of the Jace and Mill Servemore, supposedly, the founder of the next Chanel. Maybe I should watch TV more, that way, I would not forget that I murdered a woman in a bunker over a 'simple' affair and that she is indeed missing, and I know where she is.

You know, Jane? You could've fixed my bloodline with just a runway show in Paris but you chose to fuck that designer knowing damn well I don't like sharing anything. This proves to me she never listens to what I say, and why should I when she screams for her life at the top of her lungs?

Good fucking evening. I'm finished. Took me half of the day to get rid of her guts, yuck. I should really punish myself for making me in the future go through shits he didn't want to go through.

At least a cold shower helps after a long day because now the warmth of the library is indeed getting into me. It gets you right in the mood, you know? A cup of tea, read a few pages of Patricia Cornwell's tenth book of the Kay Scarpetta series Black Notice, and no one to interrupt your reading. You know, this is the great side of being left abandoned by your late father aside from being inside the family that rules the country.

No one knows or dare to care who the fuck you are.

"Sorry to bother, do you have Ruth Rendell?"

My eyes never shot up at this pace before it actually hurt. Ruth Rendell? Psychotic woman, I see.

"Certainly, but all we got left is The Brimstone Wedding and A Dark-Adapted Eye. It is on the right corner rack right there."

Right, my direction. I read those things, not that I'm ashamed of it.

Medium brown hair, long eyelashes, dark but subtle lipstick, almost no makeup. She is indeed one to imply her efforts, half-tired eyes, probably comes from writing journals about how decomposing a dead body should start with removing their teeth and nails, if she's even a journalist and a feminist. Feminists love dark romance, don't they?

Also sleeve gloves? Is she an official? A witch, perhaps. Ha! That was a good one.

I need to look away. Appear natural.

The corner of my eyes reads that she is choosing the Brimstone Wedding one. A woman that likes to torture her own mentality, to cope, I suppose? That's brilliant.

I finally made eye contact with her as she sat down across my spot. Hazelnut brown eyes, she's a country's gift. A trophy. She might be as old as I am. A 27 year old writer? A journalist? Or judging by her hand placement on the book and her purse, public speaking, to be precise. Balanced it well. A news anchor? Is that why her face is so familiar?

"Would appreciate it if you give a bit more attention to your book, really." Shit.

"I apologize." I clear my throat because I am a loner rich nobleman, at least that's what my family made me become.

"Your voice is nice," There. I complimented her. It's probably too straightforward but she had already caught me checking her out already.

I breathe the air in, she enters. Chanel Coco Mademoiselle. Jane hated this, she said it smelt too musky. But I loved it, it matches her energy, not Jane. The universe brought me to her.

I could feel her eyes on me so I stared back, and I was right, she looked horrified, no, mortified. Great job, your highness or whatever. It was a moment of silence, her mouth parted as she was trying to build up a sentence to respond to my stupid compliment. Maybe I shouldn't have bitten anything. I'm starting to think that I should've eaten the full english breakfast today.

"Your voice isn't bad either," She pauses, fixing her position. Maybe not mortified, nervous? "Could be an F1 commentator, or the driver I must say from your looks."

Did she just call me fit? Impressive I must say for eating greasy things for breakfast and chips for lunch. Just like that she continued reading her Ruth Rendell, no expressions, so that's probably sarcasm. Not interested in me one bit. She called me loud too with that commentator thing. Quite arrogant, don't you think?

Anyways, I made my way through two pages in under five minutes while talking to a woman, how dare I do that yet still spend the whole day just to get rid of one person. The math never adds up. But hey, this book's quite better than comparing the shits you do with reading.

"Being evil is universal, including the ones who serve the law and the ones who break it. Is that what you're seeking?"

Damn. I just read that line a minute ago. She's most definitely a journalist. Or a fortune-teller?

"Everyone is evil, don't you think?" She closed her book, to debate with me? Nice, a political woman. Did she go through a divorce?

"No, if that's the case our country would be such a mess." Smart. Straightforward. Blunt. She doesn't think of others when she talks because apparently she addresses her false points better than the truth. Also, our country's like this because someone like her wouldn't know who I am. Good though, serves me peace, serves the country peace. Political, like her. Maybe we connect in some way.

"Well, everyone knows their boundaries as well as the others." I close my book too, if she wants to debate, I'll do it. "I bet if we stay the old-fashioned way, there'll just be drunken noblemen up your door threatening you to invent something new or else his butler will have you decapitated in some kind of way."

"Okay now, that is another case. If we're talking about our country right here, don't you think it's being ruled by some brainwashed elites creating their own beliefs? Terrible people." I smiled at that as I leaned back to the sofa, she has a way of talking.

Her phone rang which she then picked up, a woman of work. Workaholic? She even stands up and walks away to answer that call. A rare sighting in Hanover, honestly. What if she makes more money than I do? I might be the one doing the dishes if we were ever marriedㅡOkay no, too far.

It didn't take me long enough to realize how my eyes had followed her figure through the bookshelves. Is the phone call so important?

"For the love of God, I said tosca, not jade! How can we do the exhibition tomorrow if the light is not on the theme, Stefan?!" And she left, leaving her Ruth Rendell open on page 51. Huh, a gallerist? I got it all.. wrong. The first time I read someone wrong.

"Here's the hibiscus tea for your lovely wife, sir."

Geez, jumpscare. She ordered something? Hibiscus tea? Does this woman smoke?

"Ah, thank you very much. Is it paid for?" There's no way she leaves me here to pay for her drink which she hasn't drank because apparently, some work urgency. Ugh, her watch is still here too.

Fossil. She is a workaholic.

"No, do you perhaps want the bill?" Great. No, really. This is great. Moving on takes years or even decades for some people, I say they're weak for not being able to accept what they are and move on. Talking from someone who had just disposed of his ex-girlfriend's body into a meat grinder, it clearly wasn't easy.

"Sure."

I took the amusingly smaller watch in my pocket, but yet just the right size for her slender wrist. Not proud of what I'm doing. It doesn't mean that I'm a bad person, right? I did everything I could, and Jane Servemore chose to ignore that. I did not want to hurt her, it's a form of love, at least the one that I had always believed in.

And maybe this time, I'll give her the form of love she wants. Whatever you desire for, Ms. Gallerist.