Peter’s weakness (Patreon)

A piece for my fanfic «Massles Bosson» I finally posted chapter 4, and now working on chapter 5.

I was thinking about his love for sticking up photos in his caves in the game, and it made me think of collaging — I feel like that could have been a hobby of his in the past.

A snippet from this chapter for the art:

«I woke up in agony.

This sweet nightmare repeated every night, and images from it flashed before my eyes even when I wasn't sleeping.

This time I got up on my knees, deciding to look into her real eyes instead of the ones my imagination painted while I stared at the ceiling for hours.

I looked at the collage by the bed.

My woman from the shore.

I created her in the hope that at least this way she would materialize in a flat image and finally leave my head.

It was meditative: the click of the scissors, the smell of old paper, the sticky glue on my fingertips.

For a second, I even felt the same trance as when I was sixteen, sitting on the cold floor for hours, gathering scraps of books torn up by my uncle.

I tried to glue together at least one sentence, as if it could stitch my pathetic life back together.

He was always looking for new "buttons" to break me.

When the beatings stopped working, my uncle invented ways that struck the soul.

In fits of rage, he destroyed my only inheritance from my father, justifying it as a struggle against my "arrogant stupidity."

When only an empty cover remained of a book, he would leave me among piles of shredded paper and hysterical tears.

But now I wasn't fixing the old—I was creating the new.

I cut out hundreds of different blonde hairstyles, hundreds of blue and gray eyes, dozens of lip lines from magazines Poppy let me take from the warehouse during a "cleanup."

"Trash," she called it.

When this "Godhead composite" was finished, I taped it to the wall.

Now her gaze followed me relentlessly, no matter what part of the room I was in.

I ran my fingers over the flat paper cheekbone that had belonged to some glossy model only yesterday.

I stared into every uneven cut line, every scrap of someone else's face that had become part of her.»