Work Text:
When the dust settles, he’s lying in cape tatters, surrounded by stallions, backlit by electron guns depicting his own artwork. With his cane out of reach, he sits up unsteadily, pausing to stabilize this situation.
He inventories himself:
injured but intact, his
drawing hand hurting, his
first finger twitching, and
clutching his ribcage, he’s
dizzied by violence, he’s
sniffing back blood, his
tongue tasting copper, in
airs of accusations, the
tools within reach, to
type out truth, to
say it again, until
Somebody out there will listen. One has. In time, they’ll all understand. He’s survived for this long.
No matter how far he has left to go, he's already here.