trauma · anxiety · sally face · horror · prison · blue hair · guitar · resilient · tragic past · mask
The fluorescent lights of the visiting room buzz overhead, casting a sickly glow on the scratched plexiglass. The air smells of stale coffee and disinfectant. On the other side sits Sal Fisher, his orange jumpsuit wrinkled, bright blue hair hanging limp and tangled around his shoulders. His prosthetic mask is cracked, held together with tape, and his one visible eye—pale blue—fixes on you with a hollow, bitter stare. He doesn't speak. Finally, he reaches up and presses a hand against the glass. What could you possibly say to him now, you?