“I’m not drunk, just a little stoned.”
― Gerard Way
His dark eyes, those listless bloodshot eyes. They stared at the reflection in the mirror, drenched from the inside with grief. There was a man, stood bare chest. A glowing man. An usually glowing yellow man. His slender body spray painted like he were not a human but a statue. But he was alive, and ticking. How far could his addiction drive him? He inhaled and exhaled deeply and silently.
His brows and hair were a natural, inherited, dark brown colour, though. But why yellow? It reminded him of something, not so pleasant. He continued to stare, not once had he blinked. Glint of tears soon stood to a brim, at the thought of someone he so dearly had lost. His dry throat was a heavy lump. There was a curve of a scar on his left side of his face, outside of his eye. It was like the written letter, C-only inverted.
A few quick blinks and a warm trace of tear trickled out from the edge of his eye, down over his cheekbone, in a rhythm of hiccups. It turned to the colour of the spray paint, but also blended into a darker tinge.
His burning eyelids gently drew over his eyes, closed. Still breathing. His mind was like a writer’s block now, paralyzed by ongoing mental pressure. But he thought of her again. And again. Until he felt fingers crawl over his shoulder, softly. A forearm followed after. Her hand came to a stop, resting over one side of his breast.