Many days had passed since that first moment when he realized that something in his body was changing. All that time he had been struggling to hide it, but now it had reached a point where it was already too difficult to conceal, in which the curious eyes of those around him inevitably perched on the black, thin lines that run under his skin.
He remembered perfectly the moment when he realized that the veins he could guess under his clear skin had completely lost that characteristic greenish hue and had turned slightly black.
At that moment he had not given much thought to it, for he thought it might be due to some optical effect caused by the poor illumination of the place where he was standing. But a couple of days later he noticed that the black colour, which at first seemed to him no more than a shadow, had become much more intense.
These lines, which originally appeared in his hands, had spread and grew on his arms and face in a very short time, and over a short period of time it occupied his entire body.
Now he was standing naked in front of the mirror, watching as his thick, bulging veins stood out over his skin like rivers of obsidian flowing over the virgin snow.
It seemed as if some wicked genius had listened to his deepest desire and twisted it evilly. How many times had he wished to be able to live in one of the many fantastic worlds he had described, how many times had he wished he could be one of the many characters he had created? In short, how many times had he wished he had entered one of the many stories he had written? And now, looking at himself in the mirror, he couldn’t get out of his head that that what was running through his blackened veins wasn’t blood, but ink.
He held is feather tightly, that faithful instrument with which so many stories he had written, and without even thinking twice he plunged it deep into the thicker vein that run through his left arm.
Something began to sprout from the deep wound at a great speed, but what came out of his body was not scarlet blood, it was a cold black fluid that stained everything it touched.
Ink was flowing through his veins; ink was irrigating his whole body.
Then he understood, his desire had been fulfilled and his body was changing. He no longer belonged to the world of humans, but to the world of words, for his heart was now inked.