Facing the mirror, he runs a finger down his cheek. The dark thorns encrusting it crackle then fall, leaving pure skin. But, very soon, the pale cleared by his doing is undone, and his skin is covered in those thorns again.

Covered with those hideous thorns again. 

He digs his nails into both his cheeks, peeling away the crisp. The pale he gets to see mesmerizes him. It is covered, again — quickly — with the thorns.

It recovers so frustratingly fast! But he doesn't give up.

A scream escapes him, and his fingers claw away flesh from his forehead, following down his cheeks and chin. The sight of blood unsettles him, but it is short lived; the thorns populate, fast, yet again.

He stares into his eyes staring back at him. What he sees is a helpless creature, incapable of happiness and doomed to ceaseless misery.

He begins to cry.

Dark liquid falls from his eyes.

Overcome with anger, he slams a fist into the mirror, shattering it immediately into pieces. Then, he stares at his hand: thick with those dark thorns.

He howls at the sight.

More thorns begin to protrude from his back, tearing away his clothing. Thorns begin to grow on his arms, and his thighs, and his legs, and his feet.

He stares at them, heartbroken.

In a corner, he places his knees into his chest, hugging himself. And cries away.

He cries away.