whyyyy

He was a creative kid.

Just doodling never did any harm, because ink was ink, and talent alone couldn't make a picture come to life.

So, as highly as he normally liked to consider his artistic ability, it must have been something else that had swirled his drawing from the page in a rush of whiteness, bringing his incredibly cool picture of a lion into being with a full red mane and a pelt of gold that shone in patches as light dripped through the bridge of the plastic playground equipment overhead. The stuff of a nature documentary, though the sun in city did it no less justice than that of the savannah. It was amazing, of course, and it was his creation one way or another, so he held no caution as he approached it until after it raised a massive paw and clawed through his chest. He dropped immediately under the blow and was by no means able to rise again. He coughed violently through a ripped lung, blood dumping onto the pavement.

What.

So... fast? How...

Just a picture, he liked drawing, this wasn't real.

Nope.

A blood-drenched sigh.

Eyes as empty and sad as the bits of stained glass in old church windows, contrasted by his obvious drained youthfulness, not looking at anything, though they were aimed at the sky. A thin body, pale as bone, though the skeletal stillness was still disturbed by an occasional snatch of breath. Seeing this sad thing, few would have believed him capable of drawing such a magnificent lion.