The Making of a King

I fell from a tree that had decayed deeply, its leaves, bark, and roots all rotten. Sadly, my situation mirrors that of an apple that didn't stray far from the decaying trunk. My upbringing was marred by the darkness and toxicity that surrounded me, like a seed nurtured in the shadows of that sickly tree. My earliest recollections are shrouded in sorrow, while the brightest moments are tinged with a deep scarlet hue of regret and shame. The few fragments of my soul I've managed to protect are the only parts I can bear to acknowledge. The rest – the vile persona that plagues my dreams – I despise. I believe death is the only fitting end to my existence, for I do not believe I am worthy of love. A tainted apple is never included among the fresh, unblemished harvest; it is cast aside, unwanted and discarded, much like how I feel I should be.