Currently sorting out pictures and trying to complete my summaries for the ‘projects’ page. I came across this picture, which I kept since it reminds me of a minor character of mine.
(the following is just part of a little scribble, a practice to ‘get into the characters’)
When Glimmer came to see me, it was late afternoon; that time of the day when the light starts to lose its brightness and slowly becomes nothing but a faint glow. I had been sitting at the window for a long time, staring outside into the almost empty streets.
Glimmer made no sound when he entered, his footfall so light and inaudible as if he was floating.
When he sat down next to me, his presence felt like a touch. And instantly, I felt the desire to back away from it. Yet at the same time, I felt nothing.
The room was so silent that I could hear the faint rustling of his clothes when he moved ever so slightly. He now sat close to me, so close that I could almost feel his breath on my cheek. Very low breathing, slightly irregular. I stared at the wall of the opposite building, so hard that my eyes started to hurt.
Then I felt something touching my hand. Something hard and stiff. I looked down. It was a piece of paper.
Did I scare you?
Why did it take so much strength to answer that simple question? Because it wasn’t so simple at all?
Why was my voice so husky? And why was the complete, unbroken silence that followed like a knife pressed to my throat?
“I mean: Yes.”
A deep breath.
“I mean, I was absolutely terrified. But -”
There was more to say. More to explain. So much more. Still my lips remained closed.
Another piece of paper was pressed into my hand. Were there faint traces of red on it? My stomach tightened.
I am so sorry.
I really should say something. Anything.
The next piece touched my hand almost hesitantly.
It will not happen again. I promise.
Something in my head just snapped. With a sudden, violent movement I turned towards him. “You promise? Oh really?“
If my sudden outburst shocked him, Glimmer didn’t show it. He didn’t even back off, and merely lowered his head, like a child expecting a deserved slap.
“I don’t think it’s in your power to make such a promise. It’s not like you are able to control it, after all.”
That finally did it. He looked up at me. If eyes are indeed the windows to your soul, like some people say, then his were made of stained glass. Bright and radiant, as long as there was light behind them, but dull and empty when that light went out. And no matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t see through them.
Then my glance fell on his hands. As long as they had been covered with blood, I had been able to tell myself it might look worse than it was, even though I had seen these very hands clawing at the wall, being thrown against the hard surface again and again until I expected to hear the sound of breaking bones. Or bursting porcelain.
They had been cleaned now, but still looked miserable. It wasn’t so much the torn and splintered nails, the cuts and bruises all over and the still present traces of dried and half-dried blood. It was the way he held them in his lap, lightly, like a small injured bird. Like something broken that wasn’t part of him.