Seventeen.

Richmond didn't like the museum.

I would've thought that a man of his... Stature would appreciate a place like this but Richmond looked like he'd rather be hit over the head with a large stone and buried alive than be there. I couldn't identify if his disdain for the place was because he lacked a sense of art or because he couldn't stand being around people for long periods of time.

He was as stiff as a board, making a face at a painting, his blue eyes squinting at the splashes of colors that strangely resembled his eyes.

A woman moved beside him, a few feet away from him, a camera in her hands. He hissed at her. She flinched, startled, and ran away so fast you'd think Richmond was a wild animal. I rolled my eyes, deciding then that his disdain for the art gallery was clearly because of the people that milled around.

Richmond went back to glaring at the painting. I stepped up to him. "I don't think you're going to be able to truly see the art that way sir."

He made a sound that was t