Taurus Falling

White bandages cover his chest and arms. The skin of his stomach is so thin, his veins can be counted and traced, blue and purple ribbons beneath flesh as delicate as onion skin.

He lays on the floor and grins up at the ceiling as if he has just heard the best joke in the world.

It's poetic, in a demented sort of way.

"Show me how you'd do it."

His words are slow and slurred, as if he's drunk, but that's impossible. He may be deceptive, but not even the most gullible sap in the world would give booze to such a terifying child.

"Do what?"

The steely click echoes endlessly through the room as he cocks the gun in his right hand and passes it off.

When did he get a gun? He hasn't moved an inch. But the question of how, why, and when the gun was produced isn't really that important after all.

"Show me." He licks his lips, his eyes grow darker still, blowing wide with the look of something completely feral.

Pure, unadulterated need.

It's haunting, in a beautiful way.

"How you'd end me."