Rain poured.

Every drop made his fur coat damper.

Each drop held the menacing glares and wicked grins of those who used him.

Their filthy hands tying the intertwining threads into a dishevelled knot.

Their murky fingerprints plastered onto his nape.

Yet those stains don't seem to wash away no matter how much water is poured, and the knot can't seem to be undone no matter how much strength is used to tear it apart.

It all seems to be a never ending cycle.

They all might not see the thread, but it still tightens with every passing moment, like it's invisible to them but strangles him.

But he can't react to the suffocation.

He isn't allowed to.

If he does, it will break his whole facade.

A facade, where the reality is buried deep down, with piles of firm gravel enveloping it.

It's never seen light.

Nor will it ever see light.

But what is that shovel that has been digging the gravel tirelessly for days?

Why does that shovel seem so desperate to reach the truth buried down?

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 𝟭𝟴𝟬
𝟮𝟴/𝟬𝟰/𝟮𝟰