When Cupid nosed around his den for seeds, he realized he had finished them off a couple days ago. His heart leaped out of his throat in that moment. He had been consistently high, consistently happy, for a week. Not having access to those seeds was akin to being stabbed in the chest multiple times. He rushed to the river without a moment's hesitation.

When he arrived at the familiar place, Cupid searched around like his life depended on it. He cut himself on the branches of bushes. He dug dozens and dozens of holes in the snow. He searched near the frigid water even though he knew nothing would grow there. He was just that desperate to find anything.

Eventually he did find what he was looking for. There was a group of those strange poppies hidden amongst the snow and other shrubbery. Cupid dove towards them and began shoveling the flowers into his mouth. He needed that high now. He needed to be happy.

He had probably eaten a second or third flower before he paused. He stared down at his paws and the petals and seeds that strewn about. This looked familiar, way too familiar for comfort.

Mama, he whispered dully. He'd grown up watching her shove this shit down her throat. Everyday he'd beg her to stop and everyday she'd shove him away. "Just let me be happy," she'd scream. One day he had stopped pleading for the cycle to end. It was painful to watch her wither away, but at least his dear mama thought she was happy. That need for joy killed her in the end. Would it kill him too? It defiantly would, but he couldn't wait for that day to come. He couldn't some poor kids be raised by some broken mess. He had to end all of this right now.

Four flowers. Five. He puked on the sixth one. He passed out before he could finish another.