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Hair.
Veritas had always heard people say it held memory.
For others, maybe warm hands in their hair evoked a deep sense of tranquility.
But for Veritas it only reminded him of harsh claws dragging through his hair, forcing it flat and pulling out knots that painfully ripped from his crown.
He hated his hair, hated the purple strands when they grew too long and touched his brow.
It reminded him of saccharine words that only caused the boulder he was pushing to roll towards the abyss swiftly.
So he snipped his hair when he escaped from the clutches of his tormentors carelessly.
He still thinks of it.
Body hovering over his sink.
Breath short and shallow as he took in the declining supply of oxygen in the air.
His gold eyes searched his face and drifted over his hair.
His hands clenched, fingernails digging into his palms.
He let himself feel the heavy weight of mental distress before he meticulously sapped away the tendrils of his melancholy.
He was Dr. Ratio afterall, there is little worth noting the struggles of a mundane life.
So the bathroom door closes before the sun rises.