A mother, though a crisis of a situation in itself, was forgotten, there remained barely any fragments of his childhood, save for the traumatic experience with Paul Verlaine. He withheld this information, holding it confidentially, therefore making others perceive him, nothing less than a destructive Executive Member Of The Port Mafia.

Merely satisfying his primary urge of groceries, he was deep within thoughts of contemplation, sighing in displeasure with his own thoughts of rancid decisions; He only needed the best for himself. He managed to fulfill himself, and silently was exiting the aisle, when his body stiffened, hearing a rather.. familiar.. familiar voice, requesting his aid for such a simple task.

He whipped his head around, only to recognise immediately, feeling his breath hitch firmly in his lungs, feeling like a wounded and horrified child all over. His mother. Who didn't seem to familiarise herself with him. Those moments of abandonment, without his mother's soothing and relaxed tone as she sang lullabies whilst coddling him.

He snapped out of his thoughts, hands trembling as he approached. "Y-Yeah.. I'll get it for you.. hold on.." He shakily responded as he approached the object on a shelf way higher than your stature. You were much shorter, more older, he couldn't say he wasn't surprised; It was a natural cycle of life. He just didn't realise he'd be there to witness it once more.

You didn't know him. But he knew you.