The white room was empty, a splattering of purple paint flung forward to stain its wall. Slowly, this paint slid down the wall, it marred the sanctity of the place in such a way, as it would never be noticed. No voice spoke in this strange environment, no movement, not the caresses of breathe, or even the curdling of anger could be seen from the broken yellow window.

The fluttering of paint was brief, and oddly beautiful as the pale haired boy moved to spin his tiny feet upon white linoleum flooring. Both of his nude legs were visible to the outsider, toned with tiny nearly unnoticed scars stitched across the silken flesh. Long straight white hair floated outward as if caught by unseen fingertips, spinning in a tangle of emotion, his dancing was an illustration of living passion, and chaos.

Long white lashes fluttered open, butterfly kisses streaming in their own innocence to trickle out the windows opening. The breath caught of a concealed viewer, fingers clenching into painful tight fists, he did not feel that pain, not here.

Two pupils of black stared outward, unseeing in their madness, the pale child’s eyes a very contradiction of his angelic nature. Next the boy lifted his arms into the air, each slowly slithering upward, a processed movement meant at its formation to caress the hidden desires of all men. Delicate long fingers dipped in purple paint curled just slightly to point, thumb tucked under them, both palms twisting outward and the arms straightened, a blasphemous mimicry of the cross. The paint dripped down, it stained the pallid floor, unmerciful.

The white haired boys mouth was open just slightly, slack with its corners upturned, if in lost in a crowd, no one would notice him. His long straight hair covered the nudity of his body, pale stomach and lovely neck stained by his own purple hand prints, each touching a stain of unseen blood. The child’s head lolled to its right side, eyes closing once more, as if an unseen set of hands had touched his body.

Breathless the tiny dancer stood there, spread and nude to the nameless viewer, his soul and body was such a shuttering wing; it could not help but resemble a bright yellow butterfly. The pallor of his face had turned red, skin rosé as any summer bloom; no breath had been taken in this time.

This is the way of things in their world, nameless tan fingertips lifted to touch the broken bit of glass, which stood as if a thousand miles between them. It cut into the nameless one’s finger, drawing blood as the paint had been drawn from the boys own. That single drop of blood dropped and stained the dirt beneath his feet, no one would notice. A bitter smile was the only thing that he could allow himself. He left for his day of work, left his fantasy, his home, and his only love behind too stand unloved, and alone.

‘Such is the fate of all truly beautiful things; they are the watched, caressed only in the mind, humanity too frail and fearful to shred that perfection which is its own soul. It is the painful truth for all of us who are beautiful, or wish to be, for as we touch that faultless existence, the world leaves us to wither. Fear truly is the enemy of all beautiful things.

I wish that I was not a man of the world, then maybe I would be worthy of loving you. ’

Sincerely, The Unnamed Man.