cuzoiol

"I am not the little beggar boy. I am the phoenix that's risen from the ashes." He said it to himself, over and over again, all the while staring at his deathly pale face in the mirror.  He was bald, and sickly thin, his hospital gown hanging loosely from his emaciated shoulders.  His already white knuckles gripped the counter so hard they shook. He had been "living" here for a while now; it felt more like he was dying a little more every day.  His dark-lidded eyes were sunk into his wan face, and their sparkling blues were dulling a little more every time he looked at his reflection in the mirror.  His arms and legs were a mass of purple