Post by salt mines on Jul 15, 2016 8:20:07 GMT -5
whoops this one's pretty short
i dunno what it is, headcanon maybe? what his thought process is? i guess frustration figures heavily with my dude skrawl
There was no way he could have known.
He was young, and stupid, and human. Of course he wouldn't have thought of the misshapen doodle becoming anything beyond dust on a chalkboard. It would be fine for him to label it an ugly, unfortunate mistake, and there was no reason he'd remember it specifically among a whole artist's life of doodles.
That didn't stop it from stinging.
Obviously, he wasn't allowed to blame his creator; it was wrong. So maybe it stung, so maybe it hurt, so maybe he'd rather look like anything else, that was just how it was. Nobody could be blamed. He couldn't dwell on it—he could already see the looks he'd get, the subdued, half-sympathetic side-glances saying stop being frustrated, is there something wrong with you? Just accept it already, what kind of freak blames a kid? And then they'd hurry away with a weak “yeah, that sucks” and nary a glance back, because who wants to engage with the ugly guy?
He'd expected scorn, jeers and spiteful looks with curled lips. It'd have been better than the half-hearted acceptance, the reassurance that it's the inside that counts, that somebody will find him handsome—but always somebody else. He'd rather be hated than unnoticed.
But then, he wasn't allowed to be.
i dunno what it is, headcanon maybe? what his thought process is? i guess frustration figures heavily with my dude skrawl
There was no way he could have known.
He was young, and stupid, and human. Of course he wouldn't have thought of the misshapen doodle becoming anything beyond dust on a chalkboard. It would be fine for him to label it an ugly, unfortunate mistake, and there was no reason he'd remember it specifically among a whole artist's life of doodles.
That didn't stop it from stinging.
Obviously, he wasn't allowed to blame his creator; it was wrong. So maybe it stung, so maybe it hurt, so maybe he'd rather look like anything else, that was just how it was. Nobody could be blamed. He couldn't dwell on it—he could already see the looks he'd get, the subdued, half-sympathetic side-glances saying stop being frustrated, is there something wrong with you? Just accept it already, what kind of freak blames a kid? And then they'd hurry away with a weak “yeah, that sucks” and nary a glance back, because who wants to engage with the ugly guy?
He'd expected scorn, jeers and spiteful looks with curled lips. It'd have been better than the half-hearted acceptance, the reassurance that it's the inside that counts, that somebody will find him handsome—but always somebody else. He'd rather be hated than unnoticed.
But then, he wasn't allowed to be.
