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He notices flowers growing under his bed, small petals and vibrant colors even in the wet dark and stale air.
He ignores the blood under his nails, painting half the nail bed in red, his fingers are purple-black.
He rips the flowers from the roots and burns them by the window.
His room fills with purple-black smoke and he closes his eyes too late. His eyes sting, his mouth feels like sandpaper and his skin itches so much he wants to peel it off. As it is, he does nothing but open his eyes and there is nothing, absolutely nothing in his room. No smoke, no flowers, no blood.
He dreams at night, of a time long past, of people that look like he knows them but when he speaks they don't know his name at all. Rather they do, but a different one, one that makes his stomach sink.
Their mouths fall, leaving a thin line of scarred tissue that vibrates as they try to speak, or scream, he is the one who screams and they try to calm him down but their fingers fall in chunks of dead meat, the hands follow, then the arms.
"Leprosy" It leaves his mouth. The scar on their mouths turns angry and black, yellow pus dripping.
They call him void.
Boy?
He wakes up under the bed, head where he found the flowers but there is nothing there.
Bright white lights flash outside his third floor window. He curls up and tries to wake up again. He thinks he may die, he doesn't, no one has ever been that kind.