Even before he was sentenced to the rest of his minority in a bubble, Arthur was having a bad day. He wasn't any stranger to pain – oh no, not in the slightest – but waking up to a neatly stitched wound of hell on his side inside an isolated room, its walls made entirely out of glass, shocked him into thinking the pain was merely a cold icepack. Even the floor beneath him and the ceiling above him were made with glass. Of course, beams and rods that Arthur could clearly see were supporting them; the glass directly exposed to him wasn't compromised by such construction.
Upon trying to sit up, pain shook his entire body, and he slammed back on the pillow in an agonizing contortion of his frame that sent tears streaming down his cheeks. When he got to a position where he didn't feel a universal heartbeat, his breathing was hefty and his hands were shaking. Pain radiated from his spine down to his ankle in a stream of triggered nerves that sent his eyes wild on a journey to find something in the room that he could focus on. However, all he saw was white.
White was everything. White shrouded the room in a brightly distressing picture, sealing his fate as a holder of the colour's soul, where he kept it and defended it in a time of great feudal war. Invading colours of mass proportions marched along, hoping to take the innocent tint once and for all and capture it as their own, sealing their own personality around it and twisting its heart into a foreign individuality. But – white fought back, and to such a prevail it stood, shields up, ready for the attack of the violent red or the distressing purple that have tried to capture the opponent they so desire.
Upon screaming, Arthur noticed with wide eyes his parents standing against the glass with their palms outstretched as if they were reaching for a forbidden fruit. His mother's face was twisted into that of an ugly animal – her face was bright red and he could see, literally see, her skin being dampened as his father ran his fingers through her neatly curled hair. Arthur grasped his side and cringed at the sharp waves of hell that were pulsing radiantly through his very flesh. His mouth agape, he let out another shrill scream, unusually high for his deep voice, as he tried to pry the fresh stitches out of their place.
He wasn't any stranger to pain – oh no, not in the slightest.
