Scaramouche was sat on the floor of your shared bedroom. He had his back against the wall as he quietly cried. He hated every second of it. He hated this stupid emotion. He hated the stupid reason he was crying. He hated how his past was.. his fault.

"...Its all my fault..." He murmured. He looked at the small, sewn doll in his hand. The doll the little boy had.

He felt his chest tighten as he sobbed harder.