88

Quiescently, an elf sat down at the dinner table with his uncle, Lark. Lark sat down opposite his nephew; skimming through the newspapers. His ears were freakishly long and sharp compared to that of a human's. It was the one feature that had set him and a human man apart.

His blonde hair, and blonde beard had a white shade to it at some areas, as he was getting very old. He was a fierce man who's lost all his pride and dignity a long time ago. Now, he just didn't care at all.

The teenage elf—sitting opposite Lark—was a chubby figure with blonde hair akin to all other elves. He had not been able to eat in many days at all such that he had began to loose a lot of weight.

He toyed with his spoon; constantly placing it in and out the bowl of cereal, and pouring the milk back into the larger volume again, and again and again. To the extent that Lark was infuriated. Lark had been seething for a long as well.

"God dammit!" Lark snapped "What the hell's wrong you, kid?" his eyebrows knotted. His tone was deliberately flooded with fury.

The teenage elf slowly looked up at Lark; not caring to the slightest degree. Lark was a short-tempered man. He had been meaning to piss him off for a long time. After all, his uncle didn't care about him. "What?" Dobby drawled, peering at Lark with apathy in his eyes.

Lark screwed his face. "Why are you doing … that? I ain't got time to poison little arseholes who are good for nothing else other than games, Dobby."

The teenage elf's real name was Dobbarius, a classic medieval elf name. But … many just called 'Dobby', including his own uncle.

Dobby snapped. "Then what do you have time for!? I don't see you doing anything else other than going in and out of those prostitution houses!" he wanted to be plain with his uncle. But too much had slipped his mouth.

Lark froze in shock, peering at Dobby. A nuance appeared on Dobby's face, and he quickly averted his eyes; edging them away from his uncle.

However, Lark continued to look mortally at the boy. "Ain't no way in hell I'm cut out for this! I raised on you, boy. And this is how you repay me? You fucking ungrateful bastard."

There was a teacup in front of Lark. He quickly reached for it, and had succeeded. Then, he looked at Lark again, and hurled the heavy cup at him.

The teacup crashed into Dobby's face. He mildy jerked back from the impact. However, the force had ceased to put him unconscious as Lark had planned.

The teacup ricochet off Dobby's face, and fell, shattering on the floor. Dobby's face was already swollen, searing in agony. He placed a hand atop it, and stood.

Lark was strong. Dobby knew he stood not a chance against him. Not in with his unhealthy body. Lark's spent his entire life in construction, just like Ashton's biological father. He worked countless hours, heaving heavy objects. Then, he proceeded to work as a miner. They found many things including Healstones in the earth. All while getting strong and—most importantly, getting paid, of course.

Lark felt as though he had pushed it too far this time. He looked up at his nephew as blood trickled down his face. In an instant, his furrowed brows raised. His face softened. But then he just looked away from his nephew.

"Get outta my face, Dobby … go fix that up. You don't want to be around me—I'm not humane," Lark said, brimming with guilt. "I break things quite easily. I only wish I couldn't be around myself."

Dobby continued to glare at his unlce. One hand covered his right eye, where as the other loitered at his side, tensed and clenched in rage. He felt his heart accelerate as thoughts about performing an onslaught rushed into his mind.

Lark wasn't looking; but he could tell that Dobby was still standing there, looking at him in anger. He heaved. "I was gonna ask you for your whereabouts these past few couple of weeks. But what does it matter? You're safer there. It's best you go there now.

"I don't think I'm fit to raise you anymore. I never was anyway," he paused. Then, he looked at Dobby. "Quit my sight, Dobby. What are you waiting for? Quit my fucking sight!" his tone rose.

He had been hiding something from Dobby. He was supposed to reveal it today. But he figured it would be better not to anymore. Not today. The most important thing was making sure Dobby knew about it before he died. He had to reveal it before he died. But for now, it could wait.

Rage festering, Dobby somehow managed to relent this time again. He walked off. He walked exactly where the glass teacup had shattered. He had accidentally stepped on a rather large splinter. It entered his barefoot, and he didn't even show a sign of pain.

He—a hand covering his right eye—walked to his room; neglecting the very fact that there was a splinter in his foot, and that with every step it got deeper.

He slammed his door shut. And started toward his Queen-sized bed. He plopped down on the bed, deflating as he did so. A breath—he had been holding in—was finally released.

Then; he slowly lowered his hand from his face. The blood was still there. However, there was no trace of any wound present on his face. There was just blood alone.

He did not even feel the pain. It was there before, but it had long faded. He sighed. "Why was I born? I'm so confused and lost right now; and I can't even kill myself. Fuck my life."

He sat straight, bringing his leg toward him. Then, he placed his ankle atop the knee of his other leg. Finally, he used his fingers to reach for the splinter. He gripped the splinter and yanked it out; groaning in pain.

Then, he quickly looked at his foot again. He swiftly wiped the blood from it. He was then looking at a wound. However, this wound didn't exist for long. Suddenly, it was gone.