A deep voice cuts the atmosphere in the room like a knife. "You're late. I can't say much for your punctuality. Or," the voice becomes patronizing, "your personal appearance."
Huh? I look down at myself. What's wrong with my "appearance"?
"Sit down." Thin, pale fingers descend upon a desk lamp and flick the switch. Suddenly, the room is suffused with a sickly, almost blue light.
A tall man in a trenchcoat takes a seat behind the desk that separates us, props his elbows and laces his fingers. His eyes never leave mine.
Wow, his eyes. I mean, WOW. They're like these frozen blue marbles set in a face of cold granite. They're beautiful.
I move to the desk in a trance, hypnotized by those eyes. They're so-
"Resume?" A hand extends across the expanse of mahogany and opens, palm up, before my face; an inquisition. Distracted from his eyes, I stare at it, uncomprehending.
"Huh?"
His voice takes on an edge of, I dunno, something. Something rough. "A resume. Previous jobs, credentials, references, experience, contact info? Anything?"
"Oh, nope. I don't have any of those kind of things," I inform him brightly.
My sunshine falls flat. "I see." The hand withdraws, retreats to a blue-lined notepad on his side of the desk. This leaves me free to concentrate on his eyes again. They're so secretive. I wonder, what kind of thoughts go on behind them?
He picks up the notepad and a shiny metal pen. "So, let's run down the list," he says, clicking the pen open and dropping his eyes down to the page he's scribbling on.
No, look back up at me, let me see your eyes!
"You were gravely late," he intones, and draws a line through the words he just wrote. "You are barefoot, in stained jeans, with bare arms, untidy hair and nails, no makeup, and…" He taps the pen on the notepad, letting his eyes flick back up to my face. Wow, those EYES. I need to-
"And," he says with more than a hint of arrogance in his voice, "and there are paint smudges on your face." He sets the pad and pen back on the desk and leans back in his chair. "That, coupled with your lack of experience and resume makes me wonder: How did you ever think you would get this job?"
That's it, I can't hold it in anymore. "I need to paint your eyes," I blurt.
-=+=-
THAT catches him off-guard. "What?"
"Your eyes, your eyes!" I'm excited now that I've said it. I rise from my chair and point to his face. "I need to paint your eyes RIGHT NOW."
He regains his composure and frowns. "Miss Whithead, this is highly unprofessional behavior on your part. Settle yourself-"
But I'm not listening, I'm looking around for something to use. "Give me that notepad!" I cry, and I reach over the desk and grab it before he can object. "I need, I need…I need something to color with," I gasp desperately. "Do you have a blue pen and a black pen?"
He stares (scratch that, GLARES) at me like I'm crazy. Maybe I am, but that's not important right now.
"Please, I need them quick! Hurry, before the moment is gone!" I pound a fist on the desk eagerly. "Please, please!"
Without a word, without removing his gaze, he opens the top desk drawer and extracts two cheap, disposable ballpoint pens; one black, one blue.
"PERFECT! Thanks!" I snatch them from his hand. "Now, don't move, and don't stop looking like that!"
Tearing the pad open to a new sheet, I glance up at his eyes (I mean, they're actually GLOWING) and begin to sketch with the black pen, swooping lines, no need to press down yet, just go over and over and over them.
Mr Kaiba doesn't speak, he just sits there, glowering at me as I hunch over the paper and my pen, trying to cram everything those eyes express to me into this one simple picture.
"Oneberry, twoberry," I mutter under my breath, working feverishly as the eyes begin to unfold in front of me, deepening and blackening my former lines. "Pick me a blueberry, hatberry, shoeberry."
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention. Not only do I talk to myself at inopportune moments, I also sometimes recite passages from children's books while I'm working hard.
"In my canoeberry."
It's kind of involuntary. There, now the eyes are drawn.
Only pausing to glance up at his eyes again, I crack open the blue pen, extract the ink tube, remove the nib and blow through the cartridge.
The ink collects on the end of the tube, then drips and puddles into my cupped palm. Unsatisfied with the thickness of my makeshift fingerpaint, I work up a little saliva, then dribble into my hand and stir the liquid with my pinkie.
I know, I know. It's disgusting, the lengths I go to in order to make things. But art is sometimes disgusting, you know? And it can involve human fluids other than the ubiquitous blood, sweat and tears.
That's the BEAUTY of it, you see? Sometimes, you just know what you need to do to make art accessible. When it's done right, the result is better than you expected, because it portrays the ROUGHNESS of the situation, the ways you've been forced to use your natural CREATIVITY to make things happen, and that's why I try to be inventive and resourceful when the muse rises.
"Over the bridge and under the dam," I continue, using my fingertips to dab and smear the ink into the eyes, to trace it into and around and through them. "Searching for berries, berries for…"
With a sharp intake of breath, I pause to take in what's been done. There, in front of me, is a pair of eyes, separated by the bridge of a nose, sketched with fine black lines, etched and traced with deep black kohl. They are an inky dark blue, finger-daubed in a circle around the pupils, looking like deep wells that go on and on and on and will never stop.
The ink is shiny and wet in some places still, and smudged a little from my arm, but the effect, the purpose, is still the same. I look once more at Mr Kaiba's eyes, and exhale in relief. "…berries for jam."
The final touch: in the left corner I put my trademark signature, my left thumb print and a little apple stem on top, the same blue as the eyes. "Apple Whithead's work."
Looking back up to Mr Kaiba, I grin and show him the picture. "Look, these are your eyes. See? Aren't they beautiful?"
His gaze is hard, stony cold, and his voice is veined with ice. "Get out."
THAT deflates me. "W-What?"
He stands abruptly, circles the desk and seizes my wrist, yanking so I'm forced to stand and look into his face. "I said, GET OUT."
"But…" I'm at a loss for words. "But your eyes…"
"Stop talking about my eyes and LOOK at yourself," he hisses. "You're making a fool out of yourself."
"S-Sir, you're hurting me."
He continues as if he didn't hear me. "Snatching and breaking office supplies, drooling into ink and smudging it onto paper like paint, gibbering to yourself about berries like a LUNATIC. Calling this worthless doodle "my eyes". Do you see how ridiculous you've been?"
"How ridiculous I'VE been?" Suddenly, this guy is pissing me off. "Art might not always take a form that you understand, or that you agree with, or even think is relevant. But art, true art, always MEANS something to someone. If it causes you to think, or to FEEL, either positively or negatively, then it has served and fulfilled a purpose. How ridiculous I might look bringing it into life doesn't matter to me. And you're an appallingly shallow person if you aren't going to hire me based on a personal hang-up on how I look rather than who I am as a person."
His mouth slightly open, he appears to be at a loss for words. He just stands there, still grasping my wrist, staring in a blank, confused way.
"Now," I say coolly, "Let go of me."
He releases my hand and takes a step back.
"Here." I reach into my back pocket, pull out some yen, and smack it down onto the desk with a satisfying THWACK. "I'm taking the notebook. Sorry about the pens. I'll see myself out."
He STILL won't take his eyes off me. He can't say a thing.
"Have a nice day, Mr Kaiba," I say as sincerely as I can, turning on my heel with the notepad clutched to my chest, and I exit the room, the floor, the building as quietly as I can.
Once my feet slap the sidewalk, I walk and walk until I hit the closest public park I can find.
Finally now, I can collapse. I flop onto my back and soak in the early afternoon sunshine.
Already it's so warm that the earlier rain has dried up, and the sound of kids laughing comes from a swingset somewhere near me. Two schoolboys are seated on a park bench discussing the benefits of trading versus buying Duelmonster cards.
It's very peaceful out here, now that I'm out of that office.
"I'm not cut out for work at KaibaCorp, anyways," I tell myself.
The grass is so warm under me, and soft and springy. I close my eyes and just lie there…
A shrill voice interrupts my little catnap. "Oww! Ow, my knee! My knee! OWWWW!"
-=+=-
Author's notes: Still early stages for this fic, but I definitely felt inspired today (this covers four notebook pages of work, back to front). The children's book quote is from Jamberry by Bruce Degen, which is a very special book from my childhood. Please do tell me what you think, it's good for me to have criticism (even negative criticism). And for anyone looking for info on Hitachiin Exploits, YES, I'll release something by Sunday night AT THE LATEST.
And I love you all. Kisses!