Work Text:
Red is the color of blood spilled on the floor, yellow — might bring to mind the color of puked out stomach acid, spilled on a white marble floor. Blue! Blue is the color of a strangled face, fingers lacking of oxygen, bruises, veins under one’s skin. White is the color of bones, of pale skin lacking in blood, having struggled so much to get up and chase after their murderer but ultimately failing and succumbing to the embrace of Death. Now black, black is the color of rotten teeth, charred skin, of corpses who have undergone years and years of decay in their tight, tight coffins, with no escape, trapped under mud and dirt and gravel and mother nature.
Whenever Pickman saw a sculpture he could hear how they inaudibly screamed in agony for being trapped in its marble visage, a model turned stone. Its veins are still beating a translucent blood, flesh rigid, unable to make even a simple movement. Oh, to be able to experience this kind of petrification, unable to breathe yet still living, unable to eat and forever hungry. Its clothing’s folds so life like, so gentle that it makes you think if you touch it, you will feel actual fabric sink underneath your fingertips. Heart of marble, eyes of stone, an unfeeling humanity.
Environments twisted into mad shapes, spirals within ellipses, broken curves on a square box. Trees towered over him like wise old men. The coarseness of their bark much like flaking skin, dry and rough. Dirt like ashes from millions of corpses, every step he took, he could hear their opera of decay.
He came to know pretty quickly no one could see the world the same way. But instead of feeling upset, it just motivated him to create more. One day, everyone will understand him.