Soft, Everything about him was soft. His hair, his skin, his heart - though that I could not see. All soft, all except those jewel-like eyes, which were stony hard: rough orbs of glassy mirror which shone like angry disaster, peering out of a velvet, beautiful, creamy white. Not his corruption, but the swimming memory of sickening horrors past just by, witnessed by this mere boy and trapped inside his tiny skull.
When asleep he was perfectly picturesque, but awake you could read his past and feel your own stomach turn. He's not old enough to see, to understand, such pain, but it's plain from one glance that he knows more than is imaginable. Unforgettable images in an irretrievable mind; damned to psychological hell when life was just beginning.
Life - what was the future when the past was filled with all that ever was? What was there to dream about when every nightmare was ignited, erupting in a flamed fury every minute of every hour, never letting go? He needs his mother's arms around him, for he's as soft as he seems. If you look into his eyes, you see he's breaking at the seams.
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