Evan tore his gaze away from the window and laid back down. The grey, pitted ceiling was his daily inkblot, where his mind wandered and created fanciful scenes from the oddly textured substance. It had taken Evan three days to decide to touch it, not because he was afraid to, but he felt silly having to confirm that it was not wet. It glistened and shimmered as if it were wet and each little bump looked like a drop of water ready to fall, yet the whole thing was frustratingly dry. It was the first and last thing he saw each day for more than a week.
He knew he was in for a rough day from the moment he woke and his mind sorted through the disorganized tapestry of his soul and placed a scene of mass execution in the dripping disappointment that made up the ceiling of his room. A long line of hooded figures were led through a dark gate to stand before a king wearing a crown of darkest ebony. Their pleas for mercy were ignored as they were shuffled toward the executioner and his bloody axe. People stood and watched as the dead piled high, unwilling to risk themselves for the sake of their neighbors.
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