The art of veining - where passion meets addiction.

This is something that will never get intothe camera lens under professional lighting. Something that cannot be called seductive. With what the Angel will lie down in the coffin, without sharing it with anyone. He's not greedy, he just knows that this is something that only concerns him and that it scares others away. His hands were resting on the sink. Deep, pink, large - these are scars on the hands, barely noticeable behind the snow-white fur. tears began to appear, beautifully blurring the heterochromic eyes. At some point, the water flooded his eyes, and, blinking, they sank like magic crystals. The slightest moment was enough, so that a few drops poured back into a heavy downpour. In the elegant paw was a sharp blade, covered with a layer of rust that appeared from once spilled blood. With thin trickles of pink blood trickled down the other arm. There were no clothes on the guy's body, exposing barely noticeable numerous scars. An angel can tell the story of every injury. For example, the one who had a cut to the chest and right collarbone was received after one of the shootings about 10 years ago. And the one on his back near the liver, he got for a stupid reason: the actor just got carried away with flirting, not noticing how, during the landing of his skinny ass on the sofa, he tripped over the sharp armrests. Who even came up with the idea of making sharp armrests? Looking at himself in the mirror, Angel plunged into memories. He remembered the day when he first got to hell. It was 1947, Anthony was enjoying another marathon of cheap synthetic drugs, when suddenly the guy's heart began to beat faster and more noticeably than it should have, there was an attack of vomiting, tremor, numbness, shortness of breath, headache and chest pain. After a few minutes, his limbs cramped, and his eyes began to darken. Autumn. The fall was too long. An acute feeling of complete health and... sobriety? Looking around, he was finally convinced that these were hallucinations. It's time to slow down a little with drugs. He was surrounded by a strange street: a lot of strange creatures, all going about their business, the sky seemed scarlet-red, like a huge pool of blood in the air, and a large pentagram was visible at the zenith. These memories make him sick. He really personally brought himself to what is happening to him now. There is no way to atone for your sins. The angel is doomed to eternal punishment, which he himself has achieved. No one can understand him. Not Charlie with her pathetic idea of re-educating sinners, nor Cherry, in the end, shame rolls over too often in those moments when you want to open up to her or Alastor again, because he, although very handsome and sexy, is just a heartless and cold-blooded maniac, neither to Husks, nor to fucking clients, nor to Nuggets, nor to Valentino, nor to himself by myself. What will happen to him? The next memory came by itself. Childhood. His father kicked him out again on a frosty winter street during a blinding snowstorm. The cold stung the exposed parts of the body painfully, the steam from the mouth was the only thing that was visible in the impenetrable darkness of the restless night, frost formed a beautiful white crust on the hair, eyelashes and partially eyebrows for a few seconds of being outside. The hands of the little children were shaking violently from the cold, and tears flowed down their cheeks, instantly turning into ice. The angel is sincerely glad that the terrible dream is over with life in the family, but he also hates the nightmare that he himself gave birth to. Returning to the real world, his gaze the thin figure from the mirror that he has seen for the last 76 years appears again. The spider demon came a little closer to its reflection, and the diamonds were sent to the sink. The slight salty taste of tears only made him cry even harder. His hair was disheveled, some strands glued together by someone's saliva or someone's sperm. The guy turned his gaze to the new cuts on the upper part of his left arm, which he had made himself. The white fur in these places slowly turns pink. Everything new is the forgotten old. Angel has always been an unloved child, his existence was remembered only when something was required of him. My mother always preferred Molly, his twin sister, and my father preferred the eldest son, the heir to all the family property. Although Molly tries to establish a relationship with Angel, he will never forget his childhood. It seems that everything is exactly the same now. His image is forced to pop up in people's minds only in those cases when they benefit from it, not at all interested in his condition. Only before, an Angel was required to do housework, and now it's just a two-minute conversation in bed, around the corner, in the car, practically, no matter where. Stupid, but at least an attractive shell is all he has left. The demon looks at the hand holding the blade. A second passes. Two. Three. The hand begins to rise. Crack. The blade hits the tile, splitting into two parts. After getting out of the bath, he goes to a small coffee table, pours the unknown contents of a small bag on it and builds several paths. They came out a little crooked, but ignoring the geometry, Angel leans towards one of them, preparing to go into oblivion.