I looked up and admired his piercing blue eyes and his dirty blonde hair. I cringed. It had taken over his body. It changed his eloquent figure into an emaciated contortion. It disintegrated his mind. It changed the young, innocent boy that used to sit on Santa’s lap into this man that had crashed hard, hit rock bottom. It wore away at his once perfect skin. It controlled his every move and decision. His once graceful step had turned into a gangly stalk.
I looked at him as he gazed into the abyss. He’d been sitting there motionless since he woke up; three hours ago. I wish I saw what he was seeing. I pulled out a sketch pad and a charcoal pencil from the dusty black shelves. I didn’t know where to start on such a beautiful piece of art. I drew his eyes that once looked peaceful like reflections of stop lights on the damp blacktop road. They were now blank and had no emotion behind them. The scars. The repulsive scars that look like dried up petals from the eccentric wild cranesbill. I wish I could draw what was going on inside his mind. I sketched the dark purple scabbed over marks of imperfection on the inside crease of his elbow. The gateway to his twisted fantasy world, a fantasy world that left those who were once important on the fringes. I wish I could be It, rushing through his veins and dictating everything he was. My eyes danced around his body. I looked down at his bare chest. I saw It wearing away on him. Everything he was quickly disappearing.
He came over to me and kissed my forehead. I gazed up at him. His emotionless eyes were glued to the picture. He instantly looked sickened. “Who the h*** is that?”