Itecho was lying in a bed of flowers.
Except there were no flowers. Instead, it was a pool of red, clinging stubbornly to his grey strands.
As he lay still, the drops on his hair, once liquid, were starting to coagulate.
The pool became a sea. An endless, oozing puddle as far as the eye can see.
And next to his limp hand was a small pistol—a beacon of light,
Which lit for him the way back home,
To a figure clad in black and gold.
once dance of winter comes out, there'll definitely be a rewrite because i am heavily struggling with the characterization
kudos & comments are highly appreciated :)
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