Disclaimer: So, I wrote this for my English class. We had to describe a fictional character, and since Rorschach is a fictional character, I therefore do not own him.
He comes, slinking down the street his caramel colored trench coat flapping around his purple pinstripe covered legs. The scarf around his neck flows freely, even on this mid-June night. The way the blotches on his mask are rearranging themselves simply screams that he is out to bring crime mercilessly to its knees tonight. His name is Rorschach, and though I have never seen him in person before tonight, the way others have described him certainly does him justice.
The way he hugs the walls of the buildings he is walking near and how his shoulders are pitched slightly forward emanates something very foreboding. His gloved hands are jammed deeply into his pockets. He is looking for some of the scum that hides in this city, like he does every night. He is the only one out there anymore, the only one with the guts to keep going after the law declared his job illegal. He was the only one who didn't care what others would do to him, only cared about keeping his city safe and bringing those who want to endanger it down.
As he gets closer to where I am standing, I start to see him more clearly. His trench coat, the deepest shade of brown, is nothing short of filthy. I find myself wondering if he ever finds it in him to clean it. Under it, I can see the suit coat he wears. Pinstriped and purple to match the pants he wears. Tucked almost haphazardly into that is that white scarf, only up closer it is not as white as it once seemed. The edges of it carry an almost yellowed tint, like it has been worn for years and washed maybe only twice. My eyes slide down his lithe figure, and I notice that he really is rather short. Everyone always said he was short, but I had never expected this from someone dubbed "The Terror of the Underworld." He is barely even five feet tall. I imagine someone taking out a tape measure to his back and him turning swiftly and breaking their hands for it. While taking in his height, or lack thereof, I notice that his violently violet pants look like they have been ripped a devastating number of times, and carefully sewn back together. I wonder who sews them for him, I simply cannot imagine the infamous Rorschach tailoring over his own pants, a few needles stuck into the part of his mask that covers his mouth.
My eyes fall back upon said mask. It truly is a beautiful thing; beautiful and mesmerizing. The white cloth covers his whole face, no one part of his identity is exposed; not one patch of skin on his entire body, not one glimpse of what color his hair might be. That fact in itself would be intriguing enough, but the mysterious quality of his aura does not stop there. There are black splotches of ink inside the fabric he wears to hide himself. Somehow, they move of their own accord. They shift and reform every second, as if they were heat sensitive and move with his every breath. It is like they are made from some kind of viscous fluid trapped inside the vast white nothingness. They resemble the blot tests given to insane patients by psychologists-- Tell me what you see. It is like he has an entire library of the black and white cards on his face. My cheeks redden and I feel suddenly cold as I realize I have been staring at this very dangerous man for more than a few moments. I look away quickly and concentrate on the pattern of the cement on the sidewalk I am standing on.
I look up again when I hear the blood curdling guttural yell of a man on the street. He is a large man, he looks like he should have laid off on all the French fries and pizza in his younger days, but who am I to judge? The bags of what looks like groceries that used to be neatly packed in his beefy arms are now splayed brokenly on the sidewalk between him and Rorschach. Rorschach has his hands up, telling the man to stay put without words. He is no more than a foot from the man now, stepping on the man's spilled food, a bag of grapes squashing underneath his boots. I hear Rorschach's rough raspy voice demand to know what that man saw- Tell me what you see - and theman's whimpering voice claiming he saw nothing. Rorschach growls from somewhere deep within him and another streak of coldness rushes through my, a shiver running down my spine and goose bumps breaking out on my arms. He grabs one of the man's pudgy little fingers and wrenches it backwards. I think I'm imagining the horrible crack it made, but the man's high pitched and almost girlish scream proves that theory terribly wrong. He nods and shakily points the first finger on his other hand to me.
My eyes widen, no he wasn't pointing to me. I didn't do anything. Tell me what you see. I didn't see anything! My heart starts beating almost wildly, I don't want that man near me. I am not a criminal! Rorschach drops the fat man on the ground with the remains of his groceries. Rorschach reaches into one of his deep pockets and takes out a wrapped up sugar cube. He lifts his mask a bit and pops it into his mouth and I can almost taste it myself, sweet and grainy melting against his tongue. He is making his way even closer to me, and as he draws nearer I can almost smell him. No, I can definitely smell him. Does that man ever shower? I think in distaste. He smells terrible, like sweat and mud and grease and all around body odor. Such a stench follows him that I now know even more why that man looked so uncomfortable being so close to him. I wrinkle up my nose and have to stop myself from lifting a hand to cover it. I don't want to make him any angrier if he is coming to question me. I close my eyes as he gets nearer, but I feel the air rush by me as he passes, spraying a cloud of stink my way.
I open my eyes again, and see Rorschach punch another man in the face. The man is skinnier this time, almost frail looking. He is pale and keeps rubbing his nose. Rorschach reaches into this man's pocket and takes out a rather large bag of white powder. Ah, a drug dealer. I watch in horror as he pounds on the man. I feel terrible for doing so, but I can't look away. I hear every punch hit skin, every groan and grunt from the pair of them. Finally, after the man's nose and arm are obviously broken, he is unconscious, and both the side walk and Rorschach's gloves are covered in his blood, he turns and walks away. As he passes me he growls that I should call the police, tell them what I saw so that man can go to jail. Horrorstruck, I nod and he walks away.
I know he is only trying to save this city, to protect it from all the evils that teem in the alley ways of the main streets, but something inside me thinks he could be doing it in a more humane way. I am thankful for what he does, but I guess it just depends on how you see it.
I walk into the nearest phone booth and dial 9-1-1. The numbers are freezing under my fingers. I look back outside at the man laying brokenly half against the brick building and half on the side walk. The operator on the other line asks me to tell her what I saw, and I start to rehash the events as calmly as I can to her. I see the man's blood on the side walk, it is making a pattern like one taken off Rorschach's very face. The way the puddles are melting and forming into one another seem to scream the question Tell me what you see.