Hey there! I found myself getting anxious while watching The Fall, so my sister gave me a word and told me to just write whatever came to mind.
The word was "Cryptic".
This is hopefully one of many, many chapters, filled with angst, love, hurt, comfort, and questions...without further to do, here you go, a little view into John's thoughts.
The terrible beauty in him was his eyes, like quicksilver melting just above the boiling point of life, oozing through the cracks of his personality and pooling at his feet. But all at once, they're hard as diamonds, a million glittering pieces all foxishly deceiving at bending the light of the truth, distorting it just enough so its wholly believable, but dark as the night on which ravens take flight. And those words on his lips, those were his daggers, his weapons; he didn't need the gun in his pocket to shoot us down, not when his tongue was cutting at us with each dart he spat. Disbelievingly, I try to catch his gaze and wonder at the colors iridescently swirling like a flicker of smoke, so alive with a shot of drug, a pull of pain that he's not really here, but hasn't passed over to there either.
And as he stalks about, all arrogance in his long legs and fluid understanding as he squares his shoulders, you'd think he was preening for the second coming, for some rapturous wing of flight to gust him above us. Another dose of reality hits him like a fatal fall, like the loss of a limb, sharp and quick followed by a numbing, tingling sensation, like a phantom trickling of life dripping saline straight from his veins.
I would worry, because how long could this lucky streak run, how many strings has he cut, how any bridges has he set fire too while still calling down to the watery graves, until he is finally painted Lucifer black, until the ground splits open and devours him in its vicious surreptitious maw. But whenever I set my eyes on him he morphs into some indispensable being and shows me that he must have no limits, there is no stopping him. I've never seen him fail, would hate to see him crash.
He must have been born with those unreadable, cautious eyes that literate volumes of knowledge, and his quick, long fingered hands that hold the world. He walks with sure, hurried feet that have passed over the contents of creation, and speaks with a mouth that has twisted its way through the best parts of lies and the hateful scorns of truths, and he squares shoulders that have leveled the foundations of my world. But most of all, he hides a soul that is cut open, flayed and unraveling as people try and pull him apart at his very seams, and his back is bear, not a sole feather, bone, or curve of an angel's wing, and as he takes his last breath, with my name just a whisper there, set on his lips, there isn't a single shred of a tear collecting in his eye, it's just rain, and no matter what I've done for him, no matter what I've said, no matter my belief that he's never deceived me, no matter that he was a hero all along, he never did grow any wings, and I…
And I...
I watched as he…..
In the end, I couldn't ever really read a damned thing in that dead, cryptic man.
Hope this little taste will sate all of you until I update the next chapter. :) Is there anything ya'll want to see? I'd love feedback on where you guys hopes this go...
