IF THERE WAS ONE thing luca missed the most, it was painting. you see, within the barbed wire walls of what many deemed the treatment center – which looked and acted more like a prison than anything – just held tons of checkups and support group sessions with care takers that didn’t particularly care about your well-being unless it meant TEETH in their neck. given the circumstances, the idea of just sitting the middle of the town park and painting was taboo, considering strained tensions already within roarton, but luca lacked the ability to read the ATMOSPHERE. that is the hate in people who walked by with disgruntled sounds and scrunched stares.
luca stared at a small dandelion that peeked out from the cracks of the concrete, a S U R V I V O R of urbanization – is what the brunette liked to say. hands covered in paint, a green streak across his face from when his skin sought relief from an itch, one could tell he was engrossed within what he was doing.
he didn’t look up from his artbook, though his peripheral vision told him of a stranger sitting a mere few meters away. “YOU KNOW,” he began, not particularly stating WHO the topic was. “don’t you think PDS sufferers are kind of like that dandelion? it’s just in the wrong place. yet, somehow, it’s trying its best to fit in despite the external circumstances. it’s weird to think of it that way, wouldn’t you agree? i mean, it’s not like we wanted to become this way. like when we died our wish to some almighty God was that, ‘hey we want to be reborn as rabid zombies that people hate and will continue to hate even when we’re changing. doesn’t that just sound so mc’freaking grand?’ it’s not like i walked out of that grave just singing ‘HALLELUJAH’ in a grand oprah voice like i’m part of Phantom of the Opera – though that would be amazing. i would always just sing. never talk. IN ANY CASE, i’m now living a life where i cannot enjoy the beautiful sensation that is hot cocoa and chocolate chip cookie dough ice-cream, and that just doesn’t sit well with me because we still get people who look at me as if i’m going to sink my teeth into them at any time. —- which i won’t, i promise you.”
Another day, another botched up job interview. He was really starting to run out of places to apply and every time he got that look his anxiety just hiked itself up another level. He was hungry, he was tired, and he really just wanted an honest job that would keep him and his... whatever Wendy was to him in their shitty little cottage in the middle of nowhere. But that seemed too much to ask from the universe.
He startled a bit when a guy, obviously a PDS person, started talking to him. Following his train of thought kind of gave him a headache, but he knew better than to snap at a stranger. Whatever he was going through, he knew most of these people had it much worse. Or so he told himself. Just deciding not to be an asshole was a good idea anyways. “Yeah. That’s a real bummer,” he said, not appreciating the food references because damn. His stomach twisted itself painfully and he cleared his throat to cover the growling. “That’s really philosophical of you, though. Pretty good reference. Could use that in a song if I still sang.” He gave him a tiny, tired smile. “You got a second chance, though. Ex-rotter or not, that’s something nobody else will ever have. Has to be something good from all of this for you, right?”
