The decaying eyes of that boy, the way it stared at him as the rich wine flowed from his cranium; engraved into his mind.

No matter what he said, Patroclus was never heard. He was just the trouble maker who killed a kid over a measly pair of dice. What an awful creature for a son.

Events among Phthia was no parade either, the other boys despised him; saw him as what he was accused. And avoided the olive skinned boy. Yet ever since the excile, the eyes haunted him like the fates. In the dark corner Patroclus saw the deceased boy, in reflections, crowds, and his dreams.

Patroclus often woke up screaming like a greving mother, disturbing the other orphans to the point where the guards had him sleep elsewhere. It only got worse, isolation was the minds playground on reality and the other side. The dreams…

The kings son, Achilles, even thought he was a bit strange but tried his best to help. The visions dimmed quite severely after they got closer, Achilles was like some angel it seemed. Patroclus was greatful for the prince’s friendship; at least someone didn’t hate him.

Though not everything good lasts. Violent storms clashed against the dark waves out in the mist of the night, Patroclus lay upon a cot in the corner of the princes chambers; wide awake.

It was nights like these he feared, the grotesque corpse never failed to appear. There the boy sat, near the balcony; staring. No words were spoken, they didn’t have to. Patroclus knew what those lifeless eyes said and wanted.

His heart picked up, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to escape his mind. The way his vital organ pumped would lead to Cardiogenic shock for sure, however what was he supposed to do? He was a kid, and what do kids do in an overwhelming state?

They cry.