Harold had about a million cuts covering his pale hands, so bandaids were covering the tips of his fingers to his wrist. Despite the inconvenience, he still carefully folded the fragile paper over on the kitchen counter, attempting to make a paper airplane. His tongue poking slightly out of his mouth as his brows furrowed in focus.

..The counter was covered with other paper planes he’d spent hours on as the time ticked on and on. He was hunched over the counter, his back aching as his finger carefully bent the paper to his will.

He winced as the pointy edge of paper sliced through his index finger, he grunted quietly and watched as a droplet of blood painted the paper red.