When he was young, he sang songs of Humpty Dumpty and London Bridge, walking along an imaginary tightrope. Dear little porcelain was so innocent and imaginative, always talking to his magical friends about how he was scared of the giant in the next room. Childish imaginings were charming at his age.
When he was young, he was a doll. Dear little porcelain was always dressed up in cute and fancy clothes, always ready to play his part of being the perfect child. He would smile that perfect smile, little dimples and pink-painted cheeks, and he would be fawned over by his daddy's friends.
He grew older and more refined, but dear little porcelain stayed as a perfect doll. Only now, he wasn't allowed to talk to his imaginary friends; they had to go back to their own world of fairy dust and rainbows. He wished to go with them; the giant was still in the next room.
He grew older and went to school, where all teachers called him special and smart. Dear little porcelain loved it so, as the giant said he was stupid, that he couldn't think. He knew the giant was lying, because that's what giants do; he read it in a book.
He grew tall and slim, and all the girls noticed. Dear little porcelain could tell that they fawned over him for his perfect face and pale skin, but he couldn't bring himself to care. The giant didn't care how many girls liked him after all; if he did, he wouldn't taint dear little porcelain's skin with red and purple which hurt, hurt, hurt.
He grew tall and slim, and his old friends spoke to him in his head. Dear little porcelain would tell them what the giant did last night, when he said he'd remove dear little porcelain's stitches and let his stuffing fall out. His friends didn't like that the giant was still there.
The days grew long, and he was tired. Dear little porcelain could hardly stand. Purple and red were painted along his legs, torso and arms, and made it had to move. He told the friends in his head that the giant did it all, and they didn't like that one bit.
The days were long, and he was sad. Dear little porcelain cried diamond tears on his pillow and didn't want to eat. The giant hurt him more and more and it made the diamond tears turn into worthless glass. Little sobs echoing through the big house as the friends in his head scared him with ways to get rid of the giant that were wrong, wrong, wrong.
Porcelain is perfect, and never grows imperfections. But that's wrong. Dear little porcelain paints red lines on his skinny arms and thighs, and has yet to eat. Glass falls from his lashes as the red slowly drips onto the bathroom tile. He is imperfect porcelain, scratched beyond beauty. The friends in his head told him it would help, while his other porcelain friends don't even notice.
Porcelain is perfect, the giant tells him that. Dear little porcelain must be perfect for that giant. But dear little porcelain is lost inside his head, forever staring into space and imagining a giant who is not a giant, but the father he claims to be. The friends in his head say he must grow up and leave his fantasy, his safe haven behind.
Porcelain hands hold a water gun. Dear little porcelain cries his glass tears, and they run down his cracked face. He is painted purple and red, and the porcelain cracks in so many places. The friends in his head, his only real friends, say that he can escape this way.
Porcelain hands hold a water gun. Dear little porcelain has no more energy left to argue. They put the plastic against their head and pulled back the trigger, painting the wall the same red they painted on their arms. Shards of sharp, perfect porcelain spread out across the bed and imbed themselves in the wallpaper. They'll be up again tomorrow, and ready to play.
Dear little porcelain didn't have what it takes to be the perfect doll...
... No. Wait. Rewind.
He is not dear little porcelain, he is Ootori Kyouya. There is no fantasy land of giants or magical friends, only the delusional coping mechanisms he created for himself to escape his father's abuse.
He fell into depression.
He did not paint red on his arms with paint and a brush, but with a razor. He fell so hard and so fast, he couldn't get up again. He put the trigger of a pistol against his head, as the voices told him to, and committed suicide.
He will never get up again.
Ootori Kyouya only wanted to be treated like a person, and to be loved; but in the end, they shattered.
Now, his real friends are left to cry.