A crown has a habit of passing from one person to another, no matter how high their crimes are.
A crown screams for human blood.
A crown started wars.
A crown was praised and shattered.
A crown. It promises power, dignity, recognition.
I was begging for it. I believed, that is what I needed. Power.
I am tired of being pushed around.
Nobody understands my sorrows.
"It's okay, talk to me when you need to, I will listen."
What is the point, if all you will say at the end of my speech is "It's okay, you'll get though this, it will be fine."
Let me tell you a thing.
It won't get better.
This world is way too cruel.
And every one, every single one of you will die.
I will take pleasure in doing so.
I will cover the anxiety on my face with a smile.
No matter how crooked or insane that smile would be.
I will laugh at a body, once alive, moving, feeling emotions, is now soft and covered with a warm crimson liquid under my feet.
I laugh at the people touched with only one edge of insanity who call themselves "kings" and "queens" when the hands of other people laid a crown on their empty head.
I, however, is not the cause.
I am the king of the night. The one who lurks in the shadows, searching for their prey.
The woman in the light from her cell phone, walking alone, probably on a date or something.
Suddenly, she stops.
She is scared. She can feel that her death is close.
It's me.
It's just me.
With a knife in my hand.
And with my smile on my lips.
"Tell them, the King of Street Shadows has sent his regards."
