Dirty hooves and unicorn plasters

Silk webs and fur dye

Tw: spiders, mentions of self harm , mentions of past homes + scars/old wounds
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The smell of dew drops filled the morning air and the sun peeked through the cracks in the beige blinds, illuminating the room. Eventually the rays rested upon the face of a snoozing strawberry cow, who's eyelids began to flicker and he groaned and twisted and turned in his sheets before his eyes finally flickered open. Make no mistake, Tommy was not a morning person and the fact his eyes betrayed him and woke him up felt like a crime in itself. He stretched his hoofed fingers infront of his face before stretching out his hoofed legs, scratching behind his floppy hears absentmindedly before gathering his bearing.

His gaze lazily bounced around the contents of the room before landing on the mirror in front of him where he carefully went over his reflection; analysing the stranger  who stared back, he had fluffy golden hair that seem to sparkles in the run rays, deeps blue ocean eyes that seemed to be greying- not literally greying, there was no disease or phenomenon that could do that, but saying he was tired emotionally, mentally and physically would be an understatement. He was wearing a yellow shirt clearly too small for him with a legend of Zelda faded print on it with purpled stripped pants that were 2 sizes too big; he mused that he looked like some sort of trust fund kid. He swayed his hooves off his bed for a moment more before steadying them on the floorboards, taking in the rhythmical sound of the wood clattering from impact, he slowly put his weight on his legs (which wasn't much weight) and lazily dragged himself to the bathroom after grabbing some clothes and a paper bag he had hidden under the bed.

Groggily he made his way to the bathroom, dragging his hooves along the ground, he placed his hand on the doorknob for a moment and he shook the sleepiness away before opening it. Once he did he locked the door and pulled a string cord that filled the room with buzzing and a auburn light from the bulb above, he tossed his clean clothes in a pile by the door and his dirty ones in another pile at the other end of the bathroom before opening the bag and pulling out some red hair dye. He paused debating how he would do this, would he impose as an imp/nether hybrid or a mushroom hybrid this time? He shrugged going with the first, hoping that it may put anyone off fostering or adopting him, simply bored and tired of the cycle- not that he was scared, no big men are never scared, though if you asked the moth's or spider's or bug's he talked to frequently they might just tell you a different story about the strawberry blonde.

Quite ironic really, a strawberry blonde strawberry cow, say that 5 times fast. He grabbed some disposable rubber gloves under the sink and began dyeing his tail, furry legs and floppy ears though he doubt anyone would see the ears but he had a lot of dye that needed to be used up since he couldn't just put it back in the packet - it would dry up and go to waste. He carefully wrapped his fur in cling fling wrap that he stole from his last "home" and leaned against the wall after entering 30 minutes into his alarm, he gasped at the coldness as he mistakenly pressed his back against the wall but he soon adjusted, he took off the gloves and put it into the small bin in front of him along with the empty dye packages. He closed his eyes momentarily as he gently traced his hoofed fingers up his side, along ever prominent line he had inflicted, over the shape of this ribs, over his old and new bruises; it was quite grounding and comforting in a way, he was very delicate as he lightly traced over each line and mark and scar on his body. He once heard someone say, "your body is a canvas" and what could he say?
He simply thought red suited him.

That was it, no real reason, each cut felt like a scrape and didn't hurt- no, he was afraid of pain, so when the councillor passed him some rubber bands and told him to flick them against his wrist whenever he wanted to hurt himself, you can imagine his distaste. No, Tommy didn't cut himself because he liked pain, in a odd way- Tommy hated hurting himself, he hated pain. To say it was for aesthetic would be crude, in a way it was but it felt like so much more, Tommy liked the comfort of seeing the colour red arise on his skin to put it simply. He liked having scars, he liked getting bruises, he liked getting reminders.