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Perhaps that was for the best.
No, that was for the best.
Uranus didn't need to be doubting himself right now.
He didn't want to. But did that mean he wasn't doing it?
No, of course not.
He never did anything right anyways.
He knew that.
He didn't know a lot of things.
He wasn't smart.
But he knew that
It was one of the main reasons he was even considering this...
...Among others.
A lot of other reasons.
Uranus's life had never mattered in the end.
But he could make his death matter in a way his living form had never achieved.
Perhaps he could.
No, he could.
He could do it.
He looked over at the knife in his hand, simple yet so powerful.
He didn't know how to feel.
So he didn't.
Feeling had never led him anywhere good anyways.
Except here.
He didn't like it here but...
He didn't hate it either.
There was a canvas in front of him.
A blank canvas.
Blank of any forms and colors.
Blank of any suffering and guilt.
Just a canvas
White and pure.
Like he once was, a long time ago.
He clutched his hand around the knife.
He absently registered tears running down his face.
How ironic.
He couldn't even tell the last time he'd cried.
He looked at the knife.
The knife looked at him.
Then at the canvas.
Then at him again.
Uranus complied and brought the knife to his wrist.
The knife was steady.
His hand was trembling.
He didn't really care about either.
He didn't really care.
Red started painting his wrist.
When had he-?
Oh well.
The knife knew what to do better than him.
And so Uranus let it do it's magic.
He could hear sobbing.
But he didn't know who was making it.
Did one of his moons slid in?
Did Saturn come to visit for once?
Jupiter?
Neptune?
X-
He smashed his wrist against the canvas.
The canvas that wasn't white anymore.
The canvas that wasn't pure anymore.
Instead, the middle was painted a weird kind of brownish red.
But it wasn't enough.
The knife came again, harsher this time.
It slid against his wrist with ease, like it was meant for that.
Like the knife was meant for cutting.
And like his skin was meant for being cut.
The knife was red.
Uranus had stained it.
His own wrist was red, so red he couldn't even see what was going on under.
Perhaps that was for the best.
That was for the best.
He didn't feel anything.
He felt empty,
The canvas felt empty too.
The knife cut.
Uranus let it.
He let it cut through his skin like paper, let it spread the result of his attacks onto the canvas.
The not blank canvas.
At one point, it had started to take from his other wrist as well.
He didn't see an issue with it.
Uranus was happy to help.
He let it take and take.
He gave.
Gave in
Gave out.
But suddenly the canvas looked at him.
''URANUS-''
He fell.
But it felt more like he was flying.
Falling up rather than down.
Flying down rather than up.
But perhaps there was no difference.
The canvas seemed to think the same thing.
Like it always did.