Note: These drabbles are a way for me to express my anxieties and melancholy mindset.
Unpolished Razorblades
The sound of rusted metal scraping against the door frame jolted the young artist; she had been isolated for so long that even the slightest of breaths could startle her.
"Edward, I didn't expect you," she said.
He stared at her and lifted one of the many blades that adorned his hands in order to break the odd silence that had settled between them before steeling himself to respond.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his gentle voice contrasting against his intimidating appearance. It soothed her nerves as she found relief to breathe again. Beckoning him to join her at her side, she attempted to shuffle her journal beneath the stray blankets that lay askew about her bedroom floor. But his curious eyes only drew the sharp blades towards the tattered book until she was forced to unveil her scribbled musings.
"They're quite terrible," she remarked as he struggled to decipher her illustrations, dragging a single blade along the page, marring it in the process.
"Terrible," he repeated. Seeking to make sense of her strange markings, those bold lines curving and entwining about each other, he couldn't help but to marvel over such unfinished creations; unfinished creations such as himself.