Work Text:
Glass tainted with sanguine wine, sanguine wine equally tainted with the mosaic of glass shards embezzled into its rich liquid. Ironic; It mirrored the fragile heart of the boy, standing directly in front of the painting below. They bled together, each inch of surface between them poisoned by the infectious disease that ran through the fluid. Tears fell - they fell and cascaded down his face towards the wretched mess. They fell towards the plague and cascaded his sorrows across the uncomfortably cramped walls imprisoning him.
His flesh was sore, uncomfortably sore. So were the craters underneath his utterly soulless eyes. Sunken and all consuming. Sunken and disgusting. His flesh felt like flesh, skin and bone felt too real. A meat sack. He wanted to shred his body, this vessel, and find his desired freedom. And yet, he is a coward. Crouched behind this vessel like a hurt dog, whining and begging yet too cowardly to change.
Bargaining for freedom with a life too worthless to pay with, skin was the canvas in which he'd paint to earn worth. He painted with compasses, knives that he constructed in mind, a playful way to tell the world his sorrows, yet a cowardly way to communicate his free will. He confuses himself, deludes himself with pathetic impressions of human emotion. He is no longer himself, a perfectly crafted caricature of a young boy, a thing.