sleep doesn't help if it's your soul that's tired
"No more firsts. We've got no need for firsts any more." Finn whispers the words through lips stained red with wine. He sits in his wasteland of mirror shards, staring into himself and back out again. His pupils are blown and he's soaked through with colours, with cerulean and fuscia. They press against his skin in the shape of hands; hands all over, against his throat, his back, his hips, his thighs.
"I did what I was told," he says, and his throat is suddenly dry. It suddenly wants to close around the words. With a grip that tightens on the shard of mirror, rich red blood begins to trickle across his palms, down his wrist. Finn lets go of the piece of himself, pressing his lips to the cut and painting them afresh.
"Who are you to judge?"
"I did what I was told," he says, and his throat is suddenly dry. It suddenly wants to close around the words. With a grip that tightens on the shard of mirror, rich red blood begins to trickle across his palms, down his wrist. Finn lets go of the piece of himself, pressing his lips to the cut and painting them afresh.
"Who are you to judge?"
FINN
