He'd been too scared to go back to the park ever again. His car had continued missing until it had died. What if he wasn't there? He still had yet to buy a new one. The children had stopped gathering outside as much, the late July heat too much for them. When he bought a new one he'd get a green one. His neighbors had been arrested a week after the argument. He'd bought a lot of green things lately. Someone else had moved in not long afterwards. Green shirts, green towels, green soap. He hadn't met them yet. Green was beginning to be the primary color in his home. They were pretty quiet. There hadn't been a storm in a long while. His computer had pretty much been running since over a month ago when he'd begun writing. He wondered a lot about his new neighbor. He hadn't stopped writing yet. Green sheets. The KBI had come in a rather non-dramatic manner to take them away. He'd need a new car before long. He wished he wasn't so frightened of returning to the park. There hadn't even been any clouds in the sky since it had stormed just before he'd quit his job. There were reams upon reams of printed works he'd done in the last month. He thought his new neighbor was afraid of the dark.
There's a nearby restaurant hiring servers, but I don't think I've the attention for a job as tasking as that. Being a server requires great skill of the mind. I'm not nearly qualified for it, mentally. But I need work soon, but savings are almost spent. It must be the green. I had another dream about the green eyes. #26
July 25
***
He'd solved his dilemma. With no one around, there were no non-faces to look upon. Relocating had been difficult, but he'd managed. A new job had helped him ensure that the non-faces were not really non-faces because they had never had faces before if he never seen them before they were non-faces.
He was still picking bits of that pencil from his hand.
He'd pinned his latest sketches up on the wall, he liked to be reminded of what he'd accomplished already. The jaw-line was coming along nicely.
Who is he?
The girl he had loved-not-being-in-love-with had hunted him down a week before. She'd pretended to be interested in the drawings, but the only thing she had been after were a few free drinks. She'd said she was sorry. Asked if he'd wanted to get together. He'd told her no. She'd stuck
Who is he?
around a few hours anyway; spent a few minutes inspecting the pin-ups on the wall more closely. She'd told him he was obsessed and weird and had left in a huff. He just didn't understand people nowadays. And frankly, he didn't have any desire to. After she had left, he'd been distracted, and angry. Angry at girl, at the lack of understanding she showed, at the non-faces, at the blanks in his memory of the stranger.
The splinters of wood were slowly becoming infected.
Countless sheets of his best paper had been hastily ruined in his frustration. He hadn't been paying close attention.
He hadn't bothered to wash or bandage it.
When the shaft the pencil had broken, he'd barely taken notice of the sharp edge forcing itself into the palm of his hand. He'd quickly shoved the materials in front of him out of the way as soon as it had started bleeding. There was no use in ruining anything else.
It was an odd shade of purplish-black.
He hadn't been able to properly hold a pencil, or anything else for that matter, for days, It still stung, but he just gritted his
the batteries had been giving out for sometime but he
teeth and dealt with it. There was no use complaining, as there was no one to hear him. So he'd spent the time studying the pin-ups gathering a composite image of the stranger.
His veins surrounding it were grossly enhanced, a brilliant shade of
When he bothered to sleep, he dreamed that he held conversations with him. His face had always been slightly shadowed, so there were no
didn't pay much attention to the dying shriek.
definite features, but he knew who it was nonetheless. They talked like old friends. They were old friends. In the dreams anyway.
blue.
He'd gone back to the park everyday afterwards, after work, to look for him. He was never there. But he never gave up looking.
Maybe he'd show up one day.
***
At first he had thought it an alarm clock ignored. His hands were cramping again. But now it was more like a tiny being screaming. Time for a break. Screech, screech, screech. Noise from the street filtered in through his open windows. Tomorrow was trash day. The screaming was continuing. Maybe he would lie down. The screech had a definite electrical bite to it. He was feeling rather groggy. He needed to find work soon. Groggy wasn't it thought. Screee
eeech.
It was more of an off-color sort of feel. Did he have trash bags? There were kids on the sidewalk outside for once. Weighty, like a storm. His hands weren't feeling any better. Was there any trash to be taken out? Still more and more screaming. Something was clicking inside him. He could hear the squeals of delight that always marked a water-fight. Definitely not an alarm clock. He looked down at the couch. Clickety click click. It was worn from use. It was sort of tingling now, instead outright pain. He never slept in his bed anymore. Scree
eech.
He couldn't sleep now, though. He would have to go put that more tortured thing out of its misery first.
The sun was bright.
***
The batteries would be dead soon. Most definitely. He hoped they would, anyway. He was too short to reach it. He wondered briefly if his neighbor noticed. If he even had a neighbor. He'd never met them if he did. They never complained, if they were there, about his lights running full-time though. Never made any noise at all. Or left the house. He was pretty sure someone lived in the other half though; he could occasionally hear doors shutting softly through the thin walls.
Why didn't this place have an air-conditioner? It wouldn't be hard to believe if the papers on the wall suddenly began melting. He thought his brain already was. The ceiling fan was too ancient to really do much good.
Knock.
Parker looked away from the wall and toward the door. He paused.
Knock.
Yes, there was definitely someone out there.
KNOCK.
What to do?
KNOCK KNOCK.
The logical idea was to answer. But what if it was a non-face?
KNOCK KNOCK.
An angry voice followed the knock. Parker gave one last look to the wall.
Who is he?
He went to the door.
***
He began knock. It was hot. And knock. KNOCK.KNOCK KNOCK. KNOCK KNOCK. Someone was home. They were afraid of the dark. Someone had to be home. Mason had seen the lights.
The door opened. But Mason refused to believe.
Green green green green. Always the green.
"It's you." The voice didn't seem to want to believe either. "I know you."
"I'm your neighbor," Mason answered weakly.
"You're him. The blue."
"And you're the green."
There was pause, filled with the screeching from inside.
"Is that an alarm clock?" Mason asked dumbly. He shifted his weight, suddenly feeling awkward and judged.
"No. Smoke detector. Sorry, the batteries are dying, I just tried to tune it out."
"Oh yeah…it's just that I can hear it over in my place."
"I'll take it down." He halted his speech without really pausing. "I know you."
"Yeah, I know you too." He wiped his hand across his sweaty brow. The not-unfamiliar-stranger noticed his discomfort.
"Would you like to come in? There's no air conditioning but…"
"Er…sure."
***
Parker held the door open awkwardly, the act paining his hand greatly. The blue-eyed stranger entered slowly, almost hesitantly. It was until then that Parker remembered the walls…
"Whoa…"
***
Mason ran his hands along the wall, seeing himself in every image in some way. In one, there was his eyes. In another, his cheeks, and so on. They literally covered the wall, and randomly placed were other pieces paper, these carrying a simple phrase.
Who is he?
WHO IS HE?
WHO IS HE?
WHO IS HE?
WHO IS HE?
Mason turned to face him.
***
"I'm Mason."
"A name for the face. Parker."
"A name for the text." Parker raised an eyebrow but asked no questions. Mason studied a few more of the drawings. "Do you remember the trees?" He asked off-handedly.
Parker raised an eyebrow. "I remember something." He sat in a chair.
"Good. I thought…" Mason couldn't finish his sentence.
"Thought you were going mad?" Parker spoke clearly, knowingly.
"Yeah," Mason answered softly. "For awhile, I think I was."
"Me too." There was silence once more as the two watched each other. "Do you want to go grab something to eat? There's a diner not so far away."
"Ok."
***
I think I'm starting to see some of the beauty in the world. It hasn't all left us, it seems. I'm taking the year off from school. Maybe I won't go back ever. I'll decide when the time comes. We moved into a new apartment; the heat was beginning to make me ill. And I don't think Parker could take any longer either. He finally finished his painting. I don't think it much looks like me; the face is somewhat more full, and it makes me look much younger, but Parker swears that's how he sees me. I guess I can't argue. He got the blue right. I told him to work on the green the next.
August 5
