A man lies on his bedbug-ridden mattress, staring at the strange stains on the ceiling, wondering how they got there,
contemplating the stories stored in the sauces and syrups mingling among the asbestos of his overly humble abode

Ugly brown splotches like abscesses on the tattered comforter that he wraps around himself, a metallic odor stirred like a soup in the air by the creaking ceiling fan, he is reminded of those tender tattoos upon his left arm

Self-loathing pulls on his every nerve, throwing wave after wave of pain, both physical and not, onto his long-damaged conscious, his own hatred for himself plucking at his sanity, his humanity

as he becomes but a simulacrum for a swine,
not even as worthy of the title,
for even such a lowly animal has utility in this world, but not he

Drifting off to another day, one that he wished would not come,
a bright smile and laughter fills his desperate thoughts, stirring him from his weariness and softening the perpetual frown upon his ragged, unshaved face

And as he flies away from the despair of that rundown motel, reaching for the cotton candy clouds as he rides the Ferris wheel
of his childhood, the warm breeze wafting greasy goodness and fresh paint, he feels at ease for the first time in a long time,

but he snaps out of this trance, suppresses these memories, scared that he may taint them with his pathetic self and darkness, perverting the only lengths of his life that have value, the only parts dyed with an emotion that was not anger or sadness, and so he pushes them inside, keeping them buried deep, like a jealous dragon guarding treasure undeserved

And it hurts again.

From this lovely world forgotten (or rather one not to be remembered), he descends once more into this living Hell. His innards writhing like a snake, shedding its sickly green skin, tears screaming empty threats at his eyes, hollowed lies for he does not have any left to spare, he mourns the loss of innocence

Turning to see that rusted pair of scissors on the unpolished wooden desk, a paintbrush reserved for a special hue, he thought to drown his needless emotions in his art

Sitting up and reaching once more for the weapon with which he would smite the only true enemy, he painted

Long strands of crimson surfaced from his canvas, and the ground began to spin, the stars in his eyes applauding his brilliance, and feeling accomplished in having dealt sweet retribution onto this villain, he collapsed onto the ground

With time, the drawing would fade, the emotions would return, the paint would dry up, leaving behind another mark on the bedsheets, and when that happened, he will once more construct his masterpiece forged in blood