Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
THE WALLS WERE GRAY, A STEELY, COOL GRAY THAT WAS COLD AND OFF PUTTING AND DANGEROUS. the color of an offset heart, that color, that gray, that was what he was surrounded with, held in place with.
the floorboards looked as if they'd creak, even if they were untouched. flecks of yellow paint were encrusted in the divots and edges of every plank, the original pretty, innocent color turned grotesque with three years of pacing and wear, though it looked like hundreds more. he always liked the color yellow, thought it wasn't his favorite, since it never suited him, never looked good against his skin.
a single lightbulb, dangling somewhere in the ceiling swung its broken hello. it didn't work very well anymore, but he couldn't be bothered to fix it. it was way too high out of his reach, anyway, so it continued to flicker on its own accord, to add to the list of things he wasn't in control of.
inexplicably, there was very little in the room to compliment its grandeur. canvases were shoved against the back corner, treated as though they shouldn't be looked at, even though the size of the stack seemed to grow every day. paint was splattered against all four walls like blood from a murder done with vengeance.
in the very center of the room, a painter's easel, speck in the midst of it all, standing as tall as it could be before two plastic, disposable chairs. insignificant, like the crying boy seated in one of them.
because one is small in the room, one felt small as well, desolate as the single swinging lamp. he never paid any mind to the lamp, so why should it pay any mind to him?
it swung, flickering with the anticipation of shattering.
the child wasn't a child, because after seventeen years, being called a child was essentially derogatory, and at an age such as that, in a situation such as that, with a boy such as that, putting someone down was useless, in honesty.
you shouldn't kick someone when they're dead. it's poor manners.
jeon jeongguk didn't care for manners, though, because he hadn't learned them yet. couldn't bring himself to learn. he would though, but not then, because being polite wasn't the first thing on his mind with his face blotchy and eyes red, his white clothing seeming to spill over the edges of his own body. yet again, almost impossibly, jeon jeongguk was too small.
the floorboards creaked.
from afar the tapping of heeled shoes echoed in the expanse of the room, jeongguk shivering and hiding his face as the figure approached him. he noticed the other take the seat next to him, but he didn't bother to look up, whimpering into his hands.
