Exhibit 18: "Human"

Alright, you rich fucks. What did we learn after all that?

I hope it's "don't mess with the downriver folk," or "that Fortune's a great painter," or some such similar shit, because I'm not sure you're capable of gettin' a real lesson outta that unless I spell it out for ya.

Not a big story to go with this one. This is a self-portrait. It's one of the first-ever real concept pieces I worked on as a younger boy, since I was obsessed with that edgy skeleton shit. It's me, myself, no buts about it, being wrapped up from behind by the grim reaper itself. Oil colors, hand-carved wooden frame, so on and so on.

Y'know, I'm sure y'all have gathered from my blatherings on, but I always got the sense I'd die young. Hell, I still might! Just not nearly as young as I'd hoped. No need to worry your lil' hearts, I'm not searching it out anymore. Still, though, nothin' more human than not wanting to look your own skull face in the face.

That's what I was goin' for here—the skeleton's supposed to be me. Even got my same hood that's stitched into my sneakin' armor. I'm looking away here, but I can't even fully look, because it's behind me. We'll never know when it comes for us, right?

There was something I neglected to mention. Timera gave a tidy little summary, but on our Platopoly adventures, I had months at a time where I had to go back home and mope. We'd liberate a town from a scourge of low-level devils, searchin' for their dead criminal daddy, and I'd get tuckered out and go lie in my childhood bed. Both of 'em; they were always open for me.

I stared at my mother's picture for a long time. Still kept it on me, tucked in a safe place. I started to see her face more clearly in my memories—I looked like her. It was so strange, seein' myself in her, blurry through the tears. She had no joy in her expression, and I saw the same every time I looked in the mirror. I'd lost some of the cheeky plumpness in my face.

There were times when I was on top of the world, and times when I cried for how simple everything was before. Before Constance dying, then before Viola's betrayal, then before returning the Scythe—it all passed too fast, and agonizingly slowly.

It was around then, few months after we'd returned the damn thing, and on another moping trip, that I started planning this gallery.

Keelo and Carmen's advice had gotten into my heart, and I couldn't sit still, but I made myself. I made myself stare it all in the face. I ranged in the quiet forest with Euphor, sat with my ghosts and listened to what they told me.

Still, none of it felt right. The paintings always came out wrong, and the stories were worse. That was when I enlisted my girl's help, and my other new best friends. Keelo and Euphor are the next famous models, I'll tell you what. Patience of statues.

So…

Here, lemme sit down.

Ahh, yeah. Comfy stage.

I guess… what I'm gettin' at is, uh—I'm here to stay. This gallery ain't a one-off. It's an annual event, and you're all invited.

Well, shit, I hope your attitudes get better, but it's still true! You bastards are welcome until your cold, gold-plated hearts melt into something resembling soft, beating tissues. Just don't try any funny business—I've got a fancy new dagger and a couple bullets up the ass of the first person who tries to buy us up.

And—well—ah, shit. I don't know. I hate lookin' at this thing, but maybe that'll change. Maybe I should keep it.

Aw, shut your horse mouths! Last I checked, this wasn't Rich Prick's Gallery, hm?

…Yeah. This is good.