BEWARE OF FROZEN} private {HEARTS

Crackedpaw quietly studied the shapes of the herbs. Cobwebs. Sticky, disgusting, and round. As he touched it gently with his sheathed paw, the anti-social insane murderer quietly sat there, ears flat, the priest trainee felt... Upset. All he could do was murder. Kill. Hurt others. And when he talked... He could sometimes hurt others then, to. the dark jaguar stared at the unknown sun, not sure whether it was day or night. But he assumed it was night, as the wind was cold, hitting against his fur like the frozen snow-filled day his mother was brutally killed by the betrayer of Draftinite. He had killed his siblings. He admitted it. But they deserved it. It felt good, getting his revenge for making him lame with his torn up back leg, and plotting the death of his mother. He hated them. Pure hate. He hated all his family. Crackedpaw only loved his mother. It was the only living being he actually got close to on this earth. Everytime he killed something, he didn't care. It reminded him of his siblings, and it made him feel warm blood. He was a mistake, his father had hated his mother. He basically... Raped her.

If Crackedpaw knew him, he would kill his father. Just like that. That brought the thought of love. Love. Love was an over-used term, the thoughts of mushy pretty pink hearts, shaped perfectly to look adorable rather then what the actual heart looked like, popping around as two gazed into their lovers eyes before bowling in for a hug. No. Love was not even close to that. Bowling in for a hug... Replace that for bowling in for a broken heart. They always left you, sitting in the dust, threw you away like wasted trash... And then, whenever something serious happened, when you need them most they just stand there, watching not knowing what to do. Not even comfort you like you used to, embrace them as you whispered into their ears soothing them as they cried in your shoulders. But even those who did use love as a true term, they still got heartbroken. Why? Death. Death is something you can't escape from. It's like eternal tag, it trying to grasp you at any moment and swallow you up.

Then the other lover who was alive, was left, heartbroken, with tears streaming down their face as they thought that everything they had was lost. You felt like crawling into a cave, curling up, and letting termites eat you up like wood and then rot in eternal hell. That was why he thought he would never love. It was just something... That went against you, it didn't want you to feel love. And then sometimes, the lover who pretended to love them, when they saw their death, didn't care. They felt free from the relationship they agreed their loyalty to.

As Crackedpaw examined the shape of a lavender, which was used for many things... His favorite use... To hide death. Feeling the long, skinny soft petaled flower, he quietly sighed.