By Rosalie Wessel

The brush was cool on his face, the red paint gliding over his slightly mottled skin with a smooth kind of finesse. A painter at his finest, covering up his own mistakes that made up the body. If God was an artist, well then, with Jason he’d done a terrible job. But no matter. He would rectify that mistake in no time. Jason looked up in the mirror and watched his face come to life, no longer the empty husk it had been just a mere minute ago. The red covered all of it – every last bit of that ugly scar. The paint itself was some sort of soothing cream, a flash of colour and cool liquid on his skin. A giggle escaped from Jason’s lips, and selecting another thick brush, he dipped it daintily into the pot containing the blue paint. Then, with hands that were steady and precise, he applied a thin, snaked line of blue, stopping just shy of his hairless eyebrow, and starting again under his mascaraed eyelashes. A deep breath. Out again. Closed his eyes. Opened them. Jason is gone, the poor boy with the scar that defines his every move. Instead, a new person, one meant for beauty and fame and glory takes his place, his previous morality and vulnerability gone. An artist, a Picasso in his own right had covered that all up, and made a new man. Yes. He was ready now.

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