My father taught me that we were all born with hearts made of glass. Delicate, murderous little tools pounding in our chests. I just needed to take some time and toughen it up with a bit of fire and agony. After all, I was a Beauregard. And Beauregards didn’t suffer from empathy, remorse, and guilt. We stepped barefoot on the shattered shards like little psychopaths, proving to the world that we didn’t need pretty emotions to survive.
