West was rude, he was was a womanizer, and yet so, so beautiful. The way he talked, the way he moved, it was as if West’s every movement was a dance. Although, it was a dance of survival.

Ever since Westley, West, was eight he’d been stealing and begging just to get by and sleeping on the streets. By age thirteen he’d been arrested, but it’s not like his parents gave a damn. That’s probably how he learned to take hits so well, from them. Eventually though, he learned hitting back was the only way to stay alive.