A mischievous smile lights his face as he leaps down off the roof, and sneaks up to the window, without so much sound as a spider’s long legs creeping across the window sill to focus on its prey. The window is always left open, but he never goes inside, for fear of being noticed. He is so used to creeping up to the window, it isn’t even difficult anymore, and he is incredibly talented in the art of silence. But then, silence and darkness go together, don’t they? The boy is careful not to be seen as he balances himself on the window sill and peers in. Inside, he sees a girl of fifteen, ever so softly singing to herself as she draws fantasy lands that could not possibly exist – not logically, anyway. However, logic almost never has an explanation for everything that is true, and the boy is perfectly aware of that. Seeing her there, drawing by lamplight, she is beautiful. He wonders if the girl even knows that, if she is even aware of her own beauty. Somehow, he doubts it. She seems like the type of girl who would sit in the corner and hope no one would notice her, the type of girl who would slump down simply to get attention away from her. There were some people in the world who walked around like they wanted the world to know that they were there, but the girl in front of him walked around like she wanted as much attention as an ant. Insecurity is like a disease, he decides, Eating up people’s thoughts, replacing with the single thought of ‘I’m not good enough’. No one deserves to hear or think that. It is unfair to them. No one should have to bear the crushing weight of those four words. She sings so softly and beautifully, it is hard to believe that the sound is not coming from an angel. Maybe it is. It is late, almost sunrise, but the he doesn’t care. The daytime might belong to someone else, but the night is and always will be his. He owns the night, like the other one owns the day. He will always envy those who are still able to live in the light, those who can still walk and look at a bright blue sky, without having a part of them fade away and die. He lets out a soundless sigh, as he dreams of one day not shrivelling up just by looking out into the daytime. But it just would not be possible. It is still worth the pain to see the sunlight, though, worth all the trouble and risk. His realm is, and forever will be the time when the moon holds her head high. He would stay here for hours some nights, watching her draw, until, eventually, she fell asleep. In his haphazard mind, thoughts are tossing and turning, reeling in different directions as he plots and schemes, deep into the night. He is good at that. Even more so when he tries. Sometimes, these ideas plague him, hunt him until he gives in to them and listens. She stays up later tonight, he suspects that she has more on her mind, as she becomes trapped, entranced by worlds that she created. Those worlds are beautiful, and he doesn’t blame her for wanting to stay there forever. He is fortunate enough to be able to. Someday soon, he will be able to show her, watch the reaction that would follow. Someday. He knows there is something different about her, something that draws him to her. She has something that all the other girls he has met do not possess, although he can’t quite grasp what that something is. He also suspects that she doesn’t know this, and he is right. There is something a little bit dark about her, and as he glances around her room, he sees that it is much the same as it has always been – Sketches of brave heroes and beautiful princesses hung on the walls that were anything but bare. But most disturbing were the drawings of blood and pain, the poverty that must exist in all worlds. The ones that showed her true feelings. He thinks that those pictures are the ones that tell the most about her, the most revealing ones. They tell him that she has suffered, and that she suffers still, in ways he could never truly understand. The walls are covered in sketches, with hardly any gaps between them. He recognises some of the faces in the sketches, vivid pictures of them, in the flesh, flashing through his mind, whilst others were only hazy memories, maybe a smile or two here, someone’s eyes there. She is excellent at drawing. She possesses a true Skill. A skill that she might never know about. He hopes that he might meet her properly one day, even though he feels like he knows her already. All those years he spent visiting her, watching her crying, watching her drawing, seeing her pain, he already knows her better than any other, even if she does not yet know him. He has seen secrets that she would never allow anyone to know, and faithfully keeps her secrets for her, even if they may mean trouble for him or her. They are her secrets, after all, and he should decide who to tell them to. It just wouldn’t be fair if he told everyone of her secret horrors and sadness. He inhales deeply, acutely aware of how much noise he is making, but uncaring either way. If she hears him, she hears him. The girl will probably just think it is the wind anyway. A part of him knows that he should try to make a little less noise, for his own safety, but the other half whispers, “Be a little bolder.” It is dangerous for him to think like that – it could get him killed, or worse, but right now, he only cares about the girl. His thoughts are completely dominated by her, all other thoughts annihilated. A jolt of shock goes through him, making him stand stock-still as she stares at the window, staring straight at him. But that’s impossible, he thinks, No one can see me. Not when I’m like this. And it is true, no one should be able to see him. Only the most creative can sense his presence, and even they put it down to lack of sleep and their overworked imagination. He freezes, as stiff as the sketches of people staring back at him, until she turns back to her drawings, not without carefully checking the window once more. He sighs again, soundlessly, and leaps up onto the roof, heaving a sigh of relief, as he is certain of his own safety. That was close. Too close. He is dealing with dangerous arts here. If he even once messes up, he would be done for, literally. This dream of his won’t work if he is dead. He has to be alive for his vision to come true. He dreams of his world being perfect again, a place where everything is at peace. He dreams of the world not dying. He wants the world to be healthy and alive. He has to make it come true. He is the only person who can start this transformation. He’d have to be more careful next time, if he is to be successful and win this battle of wits. No, this war of wits. And he must win, if his world is to survive. He is only looking out for the wellbeing of his people and his world, after all. It is that other one who is so stubborn and so stupid to think that the world is fine and needs no outside assistance. As he shadow-travels back to Infinitas, before the sun kisses the new-born land and crumples yet another important part of him, a name tickles the back of his mind. It is the girl’s name, he is sure of it. He just can’t remember what it is. Something… something starting with… R? He moans in frustration as he tries to wrap his mind around the word, but every time he comes close, it slips away, safely out of his reach. It was something, it is something that will be important later on, in the near future. Her name… her name… what is it? If only he can think of it, he might be able to rest. Her name is an important part of her, and if he has h quite easy to make people forget someone whom they think never existed in the first place. It is not like that pretension forget, when a person dies and those closest to them pretend to forget they ever existed, but a real type of forget, the way you might forget the way to spell a word, or how to do difficult maths problems. It is a power he will never possess, and yet one that is more awful than any of his, because to forget someone would be an awfully big achievement and to be forgotten would be the most awful experience. He would never be able to imagine the full enormity of the feeling. How can one fully understand what it is to be forgotten, when the only experience he has of it is watching other people forgetting? It would be a feeling that no words can describe, so full of horror and pain, and yet so much more than that. It would be fear too, and regret, and sadness, but who can really measure these emotions? Who is the one who decides which is which and which is worse? What person suffers the most, the hero, or the victim? Or even the villain? But how would you tell a villain? It is not always so simple to see who’s the bad guy and who isn’t. Especially to those who have clouded judgement. For how can someone judge when they do not yet understand what it feels like to be judged? I am not good enough. Those are his last thoughts as he reaches the dark palace where he lives.
so this is the first chapter of the story I’m working on 😀 sorry I can’t put the whole thing up, but I guess I can put it up a chapter at a time so you don’t have to wait too long 😉
It’s quite a long story, so bear with me 😀
I hope you enjoy it