Feeling the Cold - by harukami
Open your eyes.
This is a bedroom, in some sense. It is a room, and it has a bed. It has other things as well. A closet, for example, slightly open to show ruffled shirts and starched jackets of various flamboyant colours. A chair, as well, turned to face the bed. A mirror, reflecting the bed and chair. In the mirror, the bed is empty.
Some attempts at decoration have been made and abandoned when partially done. The man whose room this is does not live here.
The bed is carefully draped in gauze of pink and orange. It is a bed for sunrise. The sheets and pillows are also golden morning. The bed is occupied. He is still as death and twice as pale. Soft, light green hair drapes around his pillow, artfully arranged. Showy, silent.
Eyes snap open, pupils tiny, unfocussed. A slow blink, and sanity is there as if it were never absent.
A languid stretch, like a cat, and he pushes sunrise back to walk across the floor. He wears a linen nightshirt of a kind that has been out of use for centuries but still appears stylish when on him. Bare legs flash in the dark room. His feet are also bare. He does not seem to feel the cold.
He stops in front of a mirror. There is nobody there. The mirror is a land of perminance. The room does not change. He does not exist. The mirror shows inanimate objects and nothing animated.
He leans forward, cozens, cajoles, kisses, and carrasses the cold surface. No change. Never any change.
His face contorts and the mirror is in shards on the floor and his hands are bleeding from where he struck. His feet bleed as well as he goes to dress, calm.
The mirror will be replaced later. Servants or a quirk of the realm itself. It is always replaced.
He is dressed in ruffles and starch and politics and a small knowing smile. He leaves the room to cozen, cajole, kiss, and carress. There must be another way.
Don't close your eyes yet.
Open your eyes.
This is a bedroom, in some sense. It is a room, and it has a bed. It has other things as well. A closet, for example, slightly open to show ruffled shirts and starched jackets of various flamboyant colours. A chair, as well, turned to face the bed. A mirror, reflecting the bed and chair. In the mirror, the bed is empty.
Some attempts at decoration have been made and abandoned when partially done. The man whose room this is does not live here.
The bed is carefully draped in gauze of pink and orange. It is a bed for sunrise. The sheets and pillows are also golden morning. The bed is occupied. He is still as death and twice as pale. Soft, light green hair drapes around his pillow, artfully arranged. Showy, silent.
Eyes snap open, pupils tiny, unfocussed. A slow blink, and sanity is there as if it were never absent.
A languid stretch, like a cat, and he pushes sunrise back to walk across the floor. He wears a linen nightshirt of a kind that has been out of use for centuries but still appears stylish when on him. Bare legs flash in the dark room. His feet are also bare. He does not seem to feel the cold.
He stops in front of a mirror. There is nobody there. The mirror is a land of perminance. The room does not change. He does not exist. The mirror shows inanimate objects and nothing animated.
He leans forward, cozens, cajoles, kisses, and carrasses the cold surface. No change. Never any change.
His face contorts and the mirror is in shards on the floor and his hands are bleeding from where he struck. His feet bleed as well as he goes to dress, calm.
The mirror will be replaced later. Servants or a quirk of the realm itself. It is always replaced.
He is dressed in ruffles and starch and politics and a small knowing smile. He leaves the room to cozen, cajole, kiss, and carress. There must be another way.
Don't close your eyes yet.