Chapter Text
Screaming.
Withered rose, standing upright only by with the help of the vase, glassy and moldered specifically for him.
Blood.
All the water evaporated and he is so thirsty, the stem is yielding and not it not the blossoms can't keep on going in the glass prison in so they wither and die, slowly, but in pursuit of freedom.
Pain.
He should have been like a rose.
So much blood.
But he is a cactus.
He has something in his hands.
Hope vanished with his reasoning, his veins are empty, he is aimlessly wandering the desert of his mind.
The screaming won't stop.
So thirsty.
