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Now on with the show...
The hunchbacked boy remained collapsed on the floor, as still and quiet as a statue. The soft and unexpected knocking at his door had thrown him right into panic mode. His heart was beating so fast and loud that he could even feel it in his ears.
Was it Frollo? He must have heard the crash. Should he answer it, or let him come in? He felt utterly powerless.
The knocking stopped, as did his breath. His weak hearing picked up the vague traces of movement from directly outside his door. Whoever this was, they were still here.
The trepidation was excruciating.
And suddenly, the knocking began again. One knock, then another. With each knock, Quasimodo's breathing became more shallow and heavy. He could feel the grains in the carpet burning into his large hands from the weight of his body resting on them for so long.
And then, he watched in utter disbelief and distress as the handle twisted, and his bedroom door slowly opened.
He remained glued to the floor in shock at what was happening, before a faint "hello?" grabbed him out of it.
With the speed of a jungle cat, Quasimodo bolted onto his feet, and, knowing it was too late to hide, backed himself towards the cold wall behind him.
The face that greeted him from behind the door was not of his master's, but of a young woman. Even amid his fright, he recognised her instantly as the chestnut-haired girl he had been admiring from his window earlier that evening. What was she doing here?
He watched as she gasped and leapt back a few paces in her fright at the sight of him. The boy took in her alarmed expression, but could do nothing to escape her stares. He was trapped. He attempted to cover his face with his trembling hands but knew this was futile now.
He desperately wished the wall behind him could free him of this terrifying misery in which this beautiful girl didn't have to be traumatised by the sight of his hideousness.
The stony silence was killing him.
He saw the girl's dark eyes momentarily glaze over the fallen chair in front of him, and then to carpet.
And then she spoke to him.
But what she had said was entirely lost to the hunchback. He was too drawn into his panic that both his hearing and logical mind failed him. It was his fight or flight mode that was the most heightened sense, but he couldn't seem to muster even fight nor flight at this point.
The cold water stain now uncomfortably gripping the front of his shirt was the only thing that succeeded in bringing him to his senses again. He was suddenly all too aware of his hands, and soon gave into his usual nervous instinct of wringing them together. His heart skipped a beat when he saw that his hands had turned a peculiar shade of green.
But before he had time to think what to do, he vaguely heard the girl's voice again, and this time he could discern what she had said.
It was the alarming site of the stranger now stepping towards him that had switched on something inside him, and a strong cry of protest escaped his lips before he had even known it had.
He just couldn't bear to have her stand any closer to him, to see his deformities in such plain sight. He still didn't know why she was still here, in his bedroom, but he was unfailingly determined to keep his distance from her until she left.
But to his utter amazement, she only nodded in response to his cry, as if in resignation.
She had not yelled at him, nor attempted to strike him. Was this a ruse? A ploy to her true intentions? He was so painfully confused, and upset that he couldn't gather the courage to talk to her. To understand why she was here. The knots in his stomach and throat seemed to be disabling his ability to speak.
But it was the girl again that went ahead with the talking.
"Well…I'm glad you aren't hurt. I-I'm really sorry that I just barged in on you like this," he heard her say.
This confused him even more. Glad I'm not hurt? Why would she even care?
He remained frozen with his ceylon eyes still fixed on her, trying to decode what she meant, before he saw her retreat behind the door, and closing it gently.
He stared at the closed door, feeling the paint smeared on his hands drying quickly. But he didn't dare go to the bathroom to wash them through.
The ability to move and breathe seemed to have returned, and he tumbled to his desk in such a hasty fashion as though afraid the feeling in his body would instantly fail him again.
So many thoughts were penetrating his mind. One of the things he dreaded for most for his entire lonely life had just happened. A stranger had found him. They had seen his hideousness. And the worst thing of all was that he couldn't do anything about it. He was powerless to the girl's stares and obvious fright.
He rested his face in his hands, and subconsciously rubbed his fingers over the middle of his forehead. The image of the girl's terrified face refused to leave him.
"Why?" he said in a shaky, strained voice. He found himself saying the word a couple more times, with each one sounding more pained than the last.
Only when he took his hands away did he notice the wetness of his tears on his fingertips.
Quasimodo switched on the small lamp on his desk, seeing that it was growing too dark to make do without its light. Though its light was weak, the boy always found a small comfort in the warm hue it breathed into his otherwise cold room.
For the first time in his life, he did not turn to painting to help ease his pain or troubled mind. He hadn't bothered to even attempt to repair the painting that had been ruined earlier, but rather had left it lying on the floor pitifully behind him. He didn't care that his pots of paint remained fallen on their sides, or that their spilled contents had crept into the grains in his desk and were drying rapidly.
The whole time since the encounter earlier that evening, the young man had been able to do nothing but stare out his window. He had seen birds of many kinds land on rain gutters, roofs and branches, before flying away. He had seen mothers walk by, pushing babies in their prams. He had seen many cars drive by, and heard the faint bark of a dog, and the distant chatter of his neighbours.
There was life outside his small window, and it was plain to see, staring right back at him. But to him, this was a life he could only experience from the other side of that window.
He was exhausted, but though his eyes were tired, he knew any attempt to sleep would be useless. His mind was just too awake. His stomach was growling painfully and the boy wondered if the meeting would soon be over and he would finally be given food.
And almost as if on cue, the light from the downstairs hallway flooded the concrete of the front of the house, and several people emerged outside and into his view.
Quasimodo's stomach suddenly became fuzzy once he spotted the girl with the chestnut hair. She was hanging back from the quickly dispersing crowd, and seemed to be talking to someone who was inside the house.
Even now, after what had happened, he still couldn't help being enamoured by her beauty. It was much easier to notice when he didn't feel the burning humiliation and shame of having to subject her to his own ugliness.
Not enough time had passed for him to even remotely understand why she had come into his room. The only conclusion the boy had come to so far was that she was simply lost, and it was the shock of his appearance that had kept her from fleeing quickly.
It was only moments later when the concrete outside was cloaked in darkness once again, followed by the sound of the front door closing.
Quasimodo tried to trace the sounds of his master's movements. He was convinced Frollo would have heard his tumble earlier. This was sadly confirmed almost immediately when hard, deliberate footsteps carried to the upstairs hallway.
He heard his master stop outside his room, before quickly mentally and physically preparing himself for the beating that was to follow the slowly turning door handle.