I sit down wearily in my chair. Keeping ten-foot-tall toddlers from
killing each other has never been easy. It's amazing how comfortable Greek
chairs can be though. Get rid of Lazyboy, I've got the Greeks! Shit, I'm
starting to sound like Christopher.
There's a little wash basin at my bedside. No mirrors in Everworld, this is the best I can do. I look at my reflection, stare at the slightly rippled version of me. A tall figure, skin the color of coffee with only the barest hint of creme. Black hair, used to be cut fairly short, once. I haven't let any swordsman play barber on me yet, and hopefully I never will, so the only option, aside from living with an afro and having Christopher ream me out for it, is to put it in dredlocks. Even that makes me a joke target, but not as badly. It could be worse, much worse.
I look at my eyes. A shade paler than my skin, bright with intelligence, or so I hope. Maybe not. Everyday, something I know gets disproven, which tends to dim my probable IQ considerably. Not that Everworld has IQ tests, but still. I have long eyelashes too, which frame my brown eyes in full lustered black. April has said more than once that she envies me for those lashes. Not that it matters, her eyes are much prettier than mine.
I look at myself with a laugh. If the real world saw me, I'd be the laughing stock of Chicago for years. A black boy in a toga, just think! Oh well, here it is expected of me. But it still doesn't look right. Not on me. I mean, General Davideus, the hero, sure he can wear a toga and get away with it, but not me! Togas show too much leg for my tastes.
My gaze falls, like it does so often these days, to my hands. I've been clean for monthes. Never felt the OC in Everworld, and I'm proud. My slender hands with thin fingers and little nails trimmed to the nub by my teeth. I see something, a spot of bluish black under my left index finger's nail. There's dirt under my fingernails! I instantaneously stick my hands in the wash basin. I scrub furiously, have to get my hands clean.
It's been so long, my hands are so dirty now. Dirty, dirty, dirty. When was the last time I'd washed them properly? Not for quite a while, maybe never in Everworld! Horrible, what a bad person I am. Think of all the dirt that must have accumulated by now! Dirty, dirty.
Shit, no! This can't be happening. Not after all this time. Why, how? My brain struggles to explain it, even as I continue to scrub away. I keep scrubbing, long after my flesh begins to rub off, scraping off bits of skin. I'm bleeding now. Blood is so dirty, I'll have to clean extra hard to get all the blood off.
Think, Jalil, think. What am I going to do? I have to stop this, before my hands fall off. Logically, think. You have to stop scrubbing. Stop, Jalil, stop. STOP, DAMN IT! I can't stop, I can't stop. Shit, I can't stop.
More blood. Blood is dirty, I have to finish washing my hands. Too much blood, must clean off all the blood. No, now there are tears too. Tears are dirty, must clean your face. You have to wash your face, Jalil.
There's a little wash basin at my bedside. No mirrors in Everworld, this is the best I can do. I look at my reflection, stare at the slightly rippled version of me. A tall figure, skin the color of coffee with only the barest hint of creme. Black hair, used to be cut fairly short, once. I haven't let any swordsman play barber on me yet, and hopefully I never will, so the only option, aside from living with an afro and having Christopher ream me out for it, is to put it in dredlocks. Even that makes me a joke target, but not as badly. It could be worse, much worse.
I look at my eyes. A shade paler than my skin, bright with intelligence, or so I hope. Maybe not. Everyday, something I know gets disproven, which tends to dim my probable IQ considerably. Not that Everworld has IQ tests, but still. I have long eyelashes too, which frame my brown eyes in full lustered black. April has said more than once that she envies me for those lashes. Not that it matters, her eyes are much prettier than mine.
I look at myself with a laugh. If the real world saw me, I'd be the laughing stock of Chicago for years. A black boy in a toga, just think! Oh well, here it is expected of me. But it still doesn't look right. Not on me. I mean, General Davideus, the hero, sure he can wear a toga and get away with it, but not me! Togas show too much leg for my tastes.
My gaze falls, like it does so often these days, to my hands. I've been clean for monthes. Never felt the OC in Everworld, and I'm proud. My slender hands with thin fingers and little nails trimmed to the nub by my teeth. I see something, a spot of bluish black under my left index finger's nail. There's dirt under my fingernails! I instantaneously stick my hands in the wash basin. I scrub furiously, have to get my hands clean.
It's been so long, my hands are so dirty now. Dirty, dirty, dirty. When was the last time I'd washed them properly? Not for quite a while, maybe never in Everworld! Horrible, what a bad person I am. Think of all the dirt that must have accumulated by now! Dirty, dirty.
Shit, no! This can't be happening. Not after all this time. Why, how? My brain struggles to explain it, even as I continue to scrub away. I keep scrubbing, long after my flesh begins to rub off, scraping off bits of skin. I'm bleeding now. Blood is so dirty, I'll have to clean extra hard to get all the blood off.
Think, Jalil, think. What am I going to do? I have to stop this, before my hands fall off. Logically, think. You have to stop scrubbing. Stop, Jalil, stop. STOP, DAMN IT! I can't stop, I can't stop. Shit, I can't stop.
More blood. Blood is dirty, I have to finish washing my hands. Too much blood, must clean off all the blood. No, now there are tears too. Tears are dirty, must clean your face. You have to wash your face, Jalil.