The Face
By Wee-Me
DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of these characters; I think they own me. Mr. Burton created them and I just tell their stories. I am making no money from this and it's costing me sleep.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Still not Pieces. This is an exercise in descriptions for myself. It seems the angst bunny has curled up in my lap. Please enjoy, and if you read please review.
The once wet clay had dried a darker gray and was smooth as glass from careful work by its creator. A simple sheet of rough fabric stretched over a frame was covered in pigment, one canvas among the multitude. Reams of paper covered in bleeding ink, smudged pastel, and soft pencil lines were stacked in piles as tall as a man throughout the room. The brushes were still wet from their trip through the watercolors.
White paper with splashes of red and black, the dulled green eyes unfocused on his creation. He perched on a stool under the only light in the room, barely brighter than a candle under its metal shade. It cast deep shadows over the valleys and peaks of his haggard and gaunt face. His coarse nest of hair was matted and too tangled to even run a frustrated hand through; the once pale blond locks were stained with the paint of a thousand portraits. Bare to the waist his neglect was pronounced- ribs rising through skin like the threads of a bolt, waistline collapsing in on itself, arms and legs barely covered in flesh enough to hide the bones. His bare feet rested on a rung and his hands rested on the knees of what were once black and white pants. The grime was ground deeply into his hands and stood out starkly against the rest of his moon pale skin.
He never slept anymore, his black rimmed eyes told the tale of all those sleepless nights, just stared always at the face that peered out at him from every surface. He never tried to cross over, never laughed, and never talked anymore. The dingy room and the face were his world. The face that was disgusted by him, afraid of him, but at least once had looked at him with hope that he could save her. He had so desperately wanted to make her look at him that way again, like he was a hero. His heart that hadn't beaten in years had felt moved to see someone look at him that way. But he'd moved too fast, tried too much at once, and the face had never looked at him that way again.
The face was out of his reach forever, maybe even Moved on, and he could only see it in his mind or recreate it again and again on blank white surfaces around him. He traced the face with his eyes. It wasn't enough really, but better than nothing. His eyes shifted around the room and he eased himself down laboriously from the stool. The pain was excruciating, but it didn't matter. He shambled over to a table in the corner. He hadn't seen the face in clay in a while.
AUTHOR'S NOTE 2: The angst bunny and I are done for now. Hope you enjoyed. Let me know what you think.