avant-garde. adj. of or relating to the experimental treatment of artistic, musical, or literary material.
Red wasn’t sure if he actually liked being alone. Everyone assumed he did because he had always been alone, but that wasn’t exactly true.
He hadn’t been alone growing up, per se.
His mother had always been home, always there to be around him. But moms don’t feel like people when you’re young; they’re just moms. Thinking about where his father was, who his father was, made his head hurt and the echoes of the voices louder. If he ever went back home, he might think to ask his mother. He wasn’t sure if he’d prefer to know some terrible truth, death or abandonment or worse, or if he’d be better off not knowing. She could help him decide.
Growing up, he had been solitary, but not alone.
He hadn’t been alone on his journey, per se.
He hadn’t spent much time around other people, but it wasn’t by choice. The voices had him, then. They had carried him over mountains and across oceans and off ledges and into walls. Ever present. Ever screaming. And his Pokemon had been with him, holding together the fraying edges of his mind. His fingers brushed over the small Pokeballs at his belt, and the echoes of the voices softened, and he almost smiled.
On his journey, he had been solitary, but not alone.
He hadn’t been alone after he was released from the voices, per se.
Everyone who had known him during his journey generally gave him a wide berth, assuming that he wanted to be alone because he had seemed alone before. But his mother was there as he recovered, and Blue was there to step in if he needed a break from the doting. Red had kept to himself a lot, but the offer of companionship was always available. The crystal bracelet on his wrist, in a way a gift from Blue, was cool against his skin.
After he was released from the voices, he was solitary, but not alone.
He was alone now, it seemed. Walking in an aimless direction towards anything that might sustain him on a deeper level than what he’d left behind. He had his Pokemon, but Pokemon are sort of like moms. He had left Blue to his gym leader duties, and his mother to...whatever she did when she wasn’t attending to him. For perhaps the first time, he was more than solitary, and he hadn’t yet decided if he liked it.
Sometimes you gotta draw children who repress their feelings of powerlessness and fear that come from their fucked up backstory and hate everything instead
