Somewhere a long time ago in an evil world, there lived a sad, scrawny, pathetic little boy, blind, bound, and mouth stitched shut. No one could figure out why. He couldn’t do much with his days. He could only breath, moan, and, cry. His lifeless erased eyes left his tears stained white on his cheeks and chin.
The boy was dirty. The only things he wore was thin cloth plain and white pants. He did eat. Every so often, his master – unknown to anyone – would undo his stitching and unbound his wrists. The old stitching would leave his dry blood stained lips left to bleed again. He was given bread and water. Nothing more nothing less. If he talked at all when he ate, he was beat. If he didn’t eat, he’d get beat. When he ate his bread, he’d break it up, shaky and weak as he was. If he opened his mouth anymore, it would cause him pain in his lips and jaw.
His master did the best to try and fracture his jaw to further his inability to talk. When the boy would eat the bread and drink the water, any flavor was overwhelmed by the blood on his lips. As much as he hated his master, he was thankful for what was given the food, water, and, a book.
Being blind, he could not read. The book was a given to him by his master to make fun of him for being blind. When the boy would cry or get bored, he would feel the pages of the book, thin and easily torn and would imagine what the story of the book might feel like. To keep track of time or what he thought time was, the boy would listen for the broken bell in the broken town belonging to a broken church tower. The bell would strike every 13th hour but the boy did not know this. It would always startle the boy as the insomnia from being blind would leave him never knowing when it would strik. Sometimes it felt like it rang every 2 seconds and sometimes it felt like it would never ring, which filled him with anxiety and leave him feeling sick because after the clock struck 6 times he would be fed.
The boy felt sick, drunk, and, sore. His back left colors of blue and purple from the abuse. The boy would sometimes lose track of feeling from confusion of sleep, or his master would move something but one thing was sure, he was cold. The boy would try to crawl near his master when he would receive food but he was only beaten by his master in disgust.
The boy hand paints. He would taste the paint and try to feel the color, but never could. It only made him sad and sick.
One day his master never came with food… he left. The boy cried on the cold hard floor for days, never could tell how many. Getting irritable, he ripped off his stitching. Eight bell rings later, his mouth torn, bloody, and, numb. He then screamed for a 13 hours, day straight, not stopping, trying to reach in his throat and scratch at his vocal cords until him and his fingers started to go numb cold. Another bell ring from the old church. He stopped and could only make scratchy noises that didn’t resemble anything human and started scratching and biting his arms with his dismembered mouth, eating what was left of himself. He kept going till he reached the tendons in his hands. Eventually the boy died gasping for air, as if drowning, and tried ripping his chest open.
That was all that was left of him. His book, a bread crumb and his paints…