he’s already a frakenstein. a man stitched up by other people, others work his flesh, their memories sewn between his skin. why not be a monster of his own creation? thus the loose canvas under one arm and a small box of paints under the other. if the skin he was born with will betray him maybe he ought to create a new one himself.
not that he’s ever painted before. back when fingers were still flesh-covered they were too delicate to handle a brush without scraping finger-tips off in the process. now that those are gone there’s nothing to stop him from trying. except managing to lose his grip on the small box of brushes and having them scatter before him.
“shit. sorry.”
it’s addressed to whoever might be held up by his suddenly crouching. thin brushes are carefully picked up by sky-colored fingers (( pale blue scattered with white and grey clouds, fading from robin’s egg tips to green grass palms )) in an effort to keep all of them, and his own body, in good condition.