A/N: I really don't like
how this story is written. I'll rewrite it one of these days. Oh well.
Eyes Like His
They were blue, sometimes.
They sparkled with secrets and arrogance and something more,
something ethereal and mysterious and completely beyond logic.
I
loved those eyes. We used to lie awake at night and stare into each other's
eyes and I would drown, fucking suffocate in those beautiful eyes, choke on the
glitter and the beauty and the mystery of them.
The
way he looked- as if he knew something that no one else did, as if he knew the
meaning of life and was dangling it in front of you, was shoving it right under
your nose and you just didn't know how to look for it.
Sometimes, after a show or an interview or a press conference
or really anything, after I had to become Curt Wild, the rock star (Curt Wild,
the sequined mannequin), after we had to walk arm and arm, lying intimately, I
would sit in his office at Bijou Records. There was really no point to it,
except he let me use it freely, and there weren't any people swirling around
me, no one asking me to be more than I was.
Sometimes, he would come in. He wouldn't say anything, just
light up a cigarette and sit down in an armchair, staring out the window.
His cigarette smoke tracing a ladder to the stars painted on
the ceiling.
Sometimes, he would look at me. And everything would just
melt away. The lies, the drugs, the exertion of being someone else, all of it
faded away and nothing existed except his eyes.
Almost as if I were locked out of my own soul, and he had the
key.
He was exquisitely beautiful, cocaine-colored and covered in
glitter; so beautiful it hurt to look at him for too long. His lips were red
like candy and blood and his eyelashes were long, coated with silk and mascara
and his cheeks were always ice pink and his skin was always a milky white.
He was so pale, like he'd never seen the sun, and when I
first saw him- my blurry recollection through the gin-and-heroin haze- I
thought I'd never seen someone so white, like he was from another world, a
world with no light.
And later, in the fancy restaurant, with my head pounding-
the hangover from hell had infested itself inside my body- I thought I'd never
seen someone so beautiful, so pure and tainted.
I thought I'd never seen eyes like his.
And now as I sit, waiting for the concert to begin, I think
of how I've seen this once beautiful creature on TV.
Now he is twisted, fake, layers of makeup caked on his face
to make sure that he looks nothing like he used to, like he still does.
His accent is loud, raucous, obnoxious. I hate it.
But how do I know it is him, behind the white suits and the
horrific accent and the pounds of makeup?
His eyes.
They're still that stormy blue-grey that look like snowflakes
and rain and ocean waves and steel.
They still sparkle
with something completely unfathomable, something enigmatic, something wonderfully
secretive. They still possess knowledge that no one else does, still know that
special something that you should know but don't.
They still, I think, somehow, have the key to me.
No one has eyes like his.
