Vincent
I am a 7 year old boy named Vincent Malloy. The dark entities of my imagination drive me, Edgar Allen Poe satisfies my hunger for horror and Vincent Price is the one thought that will always help get me through the day from the moment my morning eyes open. He really is my inspiration.
Other kids play and dream of delicious sweets whereas I spend time plotting my family's end. But of course, my family doesn't see me that way. They see me as plain old Vincent, young, polite, considerate and "normal". Normal kids fly around with tied on capes pretending to be a superhero, I pretend to be famous horror figure, Vincent Price.
I spend time experimenting, inventing and reading. I experimented on my dog to try to make him a living dead being, HA it didn't work out. I invent disfigured toys and I read horror genres. There was this one time I read a passage from Edgar Allen Poe's works that said that he buried his mother. With my stubborn curiosity, I couldn't simply just ignore what I just read so I dug into the Earth to see if it was true. It was only then when I realized that it was my mother's flower bed.
My mother scolds me occasionally for being the way I am. With the loneliness I feel, friends won't make the pain ease up, my imagination is my only escape away from this pain. There's a difference between being abnormal and misunderstood, my mother obviously discards misunderstanding and claims me her own son, abnormal. She doesn't understand what it feels like to feel...alone.
Other kids play and dream of delicious sweets whereas I spend time plotting my family's end. But of course, my family doesn't see me that way. They see me as plain old Vincent, young, polite, considerate and "normal". Normal kids fly around with tied on capes pretending to be a superhero, I pretend to be famous horror figure, Vincent Price.
I spend time experimenting, inventing and reading. I experimented on my dog to try to make him a living dead being, HA it didn't work out. I invent disfigured toys and I read horror genres. There was this one time I read a passage from Edgar Allen Poe's works that said that he buried his mother. With my stubborn curiosity, I couldn't simply just ignore what I just read so I dug into the Earth to see if it was true. It was only then when I realized that it was my mother's flower bed.
My mother scolds me occasionally for being the way I am. With the loneliness I feel, friends won't make the pain ease up, my imagination is my only escape away from this pain. There's a difference between being abnormal and misunderstood, my mother obviously discards misunderstanding and claims me her own son, abnormal. She doesn't understand what it feels like to feel...alone.