tell the world that i'm dead and well
When Harvestman was alive, there used to be a jagged scar that stretched along the inside of his left upper arm. It didn't resemble anything, as far as anyone could tell and even if he pointed it out, nobody would really be able to see it but him. He knew what it meant though. They shouted it at him enough to get the point across when they tried to carve it into his skin; that was the last day he ever set foot in that high school.
He developed a habit of tugging his left sleeve down to keep it covered, he avoided wearing shirts that would show his arms off even after he developed the muscles worth looking at. Lily had made the mistake of pointing it out once, teasingly, calling him tough. She didn't understand why he pulled away from her, and she didn't understand why he couldn't explain it. She was wise enough, though, to accept his silent apology. She would trace her fingers along it, sometimes, but she never pointed it out deliberately again.
His skin isn't scarred, now that he's dead. He's stripped of that aspect of humanity, wiped clean of his scars, his skin's flaws, the beginnings of a tattoo on his back. It's all gone, and he won't ever scar again - the signs of fire reflected only on the dogtags he no longer even possessed. Stab wounds, gunshot wounds, holy water burns, all the times when people kicked him in the face and he let them, all the times when he didn't and they still kicked the crap out of him, all the times when he hurt himself just to cope, all the times when he let someone else hurt him because in a fucked up way it felt good - none of it lasts.
The werewolves did a number on him and took their time enjoying it; he takes it because he's short on his payment, he takes it and tells himself it could be worse, he takes it and tries to convince himself he deserves it.
Harvestman feels like shit when he shows up in Xanadu again, the sunset rapidly fading. He doesn't look like shit, though, and that's the important thing. He's barely stumbling as he walks down the street in his more average-looking clothing (hole-filled jeans and a barely torn t-shirt). He's trying to find a bar where, at the very least, he can feel sorry for himself in. He's trying to forget the date that Friday brings.
He's not having much success.
He developed a habit of tugging his left sleeve down to keep it covered, he avoided wearing shirts that would show his arms off even after he developed the muscles worth looking at. Lily had made the mistake of pointing it out once, teasingly, calling him tough. She didn't understand why he pulled away from her, and she didn't understand why he couldn't explain it. She was wise enough, though, to accept his silent apology. She would trace her fingers along it, sometimes, but she never pointed it out deliberately again.
His skin isn't scarred, now that he's dead. He's stripped of that aspect of humanity, wiped clean of his scars, his skin's flaws, the beginnings of a tattoo on his back. It's all gone, and he won't ever scar again - the signs of fire reflected only on the dogtags he no longer even possessed. Stab wounds, gunshot wounds, holy water burns, all the times when people kicked him in the face and he let them, all the times when he didn't and they still kicked the crap out of him, all the times when he hurt himself just to cope, all the times when he let someone else hurt him because in a fucked up way it felt good - none of it lasts.
The werewolves did a number on him and took their time enjoying it; he takes it because he's short on his payment, he takes it and tells himself it could be worse, he takes it and tries to convince himself he deserves it.
Harvestman feels like shit when he shows up in Xanadu again, the sunset rapidly fading. He doesn't look like shit, though, and that's the important thing. He's barely stumbling as he walks down the street in his more average-looking clothing (hole-filled jeans and a barely torn t-shirt). He's trying to find a bar where, at the very least, he can feel sorry for himself in. He's trying to forget the date that Friday brings.
He's not having much success.