#1545

It’s your usual fairytale. There’s the prince, beautiful and rich, who loves to be bound and bruised. There’s the stranger at the ball with whom he dances, who sleeps each night in the ashes of the fireplace with a blade in his hand. They fall in love and live happily ever after, until that knife bleeds red as blood on skin white as snow. Then there aren’t enough glass coffins in the world to contain his grief and the prince willingly embraces the needle that will let him sleep, sleep, sleep.

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