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▇▇ THANKSGIVING WAS FILLED WITH GREED.
the people wanted something out of anyone who had something to spare, whether it had been money, food, objects. people fought for iced tea at the diner. he had made a pie just for himself, but someone stole it while he went out. he forgot what for. after he had seen it gone, there was nothing he could do but to buy some iced tea, drowning his sorrows in peaches.
the mold on his wall had grown in size. it starts to infect his dreams too. dreams that are too real for it to be dreams, but, it is what he chooses to think: they were all just dreams. he can smell the mold in his dreams as well, his senses are more heightened in them.
and the mold starts to grow on his skin again.
he is rotting.
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▇▇ IT IS MORNING. he wakes up. it is not under his willow tree. instead he can see himself, as if is was filmed on camera, in a room—crisp air, white walls with cream, sleek, marble floors—sits a single wooden chair placed in the midpoint. on that chair, was him, blindfolded by a midnight violet-black strip of silk. he, skin smooth and tan, had yellow lights dancing around him, flowing across his skin, painting him in a light shade of gold. it seemed to be of a windowless ballroom, barren without paintings on walls and furniture on the ground. the ballroom, supposed to be filled with lavish things, was bland.
he pulls the silk by the tails of the bow and it slips, revealing an ocean of bloody gems and volcanic eruptions, a ghostwater gospel of ruby-tinted deaths and gasoline bloodstreams, perfectly incased in a set of jaded eyes. the blindfold glides to the floor, forgotten so easily. the red-eyed man, with black hair slicked to the side, looked like a crow, always watching your every movement with oblivion eyes. he was a stark contrast to the room, emitting something soft and light. but however, he was radiant in something lethal, something venomous. and one could say he was a pretty thing – looked like a saint when he smiled, but there was something that was always off.
