His hands curve small trinkets of love into paper. A pencil is his tool and he has no need for erasers. If he makes mistakes he'll throw the paper in a pile, a pile he'll scrimmage around; in an hour or so.
Sketches of eyes, noses, and mouths. Drawings of trees rustling and lakes flowing.
"I will draw what is beautiful to me." he says aloud, to a wall, a table.
He is alone and content, he loves his way of life. His closet full of pencils and shelves upon shelves of parchment. Thin sheets of blankness, they beg and speak to him,
"Draw a dragon with thousands of scales; sketch a bird landing in water; draw the pain you feel."
His scars tell of arguments and insanity. His wrists are covered with red markings, marks that shed blood every once in a while. Blood drips and drops onto fresh parchment and his fingers find a way to make the droplets into something. A heart, hand, leaf, a tear.
He cries everyday, feeling droopy and unwanted. This is when he goes through the 'mistake-pile', and gazes at the mess ups. The loops of squares, the angles of circles,
"This is not beautiful. I have to make everything beautiful." this man, William, chokes out, tears dripping and smearing the led on paper.
He stays up all night, recreating the drawings in the pile, every single one until they're perfect in his eyes. He hangs the best work on his ceilings, doors, and mirrors.
He doesn't like looking at himself, his bleeding arms and screwed up expression made from hours of concentration. He would rather look at the memories of his childhood that he's drawn in anticipation of forgetting.
William walks in empty halls with white walls with slouched posture and dragging feet. His buddy, David, sleeps at the end of his hall and he laughs a great deal.
William shows David some of these drawings, always showing only one of his blood creations.
David stares intently at them, and a big smile creeps onto his face. William is used to this.
"W-w-w-willi-a-a-am. Y-y-y-y-ou b-b-leed-e-e-ed ag-a-a-ain." he stammers out slowly, and laughs hysterically. He slaps his knees and holds his head in his hands.
"Ooooooouch," he moans, "t-t-t-oo mu-c-ch l-l-l-l-l-laught-e-er." he sputters with giggles and covers his mouth.
"Do you like them?" William inquires, tilting his head to the right.
Davids' smile slides off of his face and he nods enthusiastically.
"I-I-I-I e-e-especially love t-t-t-his o-o-one." he shakily points his finger to the portrait of Williams daughter, Liah.
William chuckles, and lifts it up to the small skylight of David's cell. He gazes at her delicate hands, pulling her hair back into a ponytail. She looks beautiful, just as William remembers her.
"It's my favorite too." he says, "I miss her. I regret…" he stops short and slowly raises his arm, blood already flowing out of the open scars.
He wipes his wrist across the sheet of paper, creating a thick line of red across Liah's throat and face.
".. Killing her." he finishes.
He looks up to David, and his friend is grinning and William feels accepted. William places the bloodied drawing onto the cell floor and stomps on it, ripping it in the middle. Tears are streaming out of his eyes but he's laughing with David.
He's laughing because he's hit rock bottom, and can't climb out.