Thanks to Silently Broken. Don't own, don't sue. Pov of a drugstore boy.
Dancing Perspective
The strange boy lives in a house by himself, rough curtains catching on the broken glass of his windows, peeling paint falling in loose spirals to the ground, choking the fine grasses that would spring up there, a soft carpet despite whatever attempt he may make to choke it. It's disturbingly easy to imagine him, to press your ear to the twisted jagged lines of coarse wood, pretend to hear soft footsteps against the equally rough hallways, a methodical light footed tread, baby clumsy and hesitating, ghost white clouds of powder, soft and pale as flour, caking his feet. The women in our neighborhood wonder about him as they pick out their medicines and pass their magazines, glossy and stiff over the bright plastic of the drugstore counter, what a shame for the neighborhood and such a poor dear, perhaps the policemen will help, but after all, its not like he's violent, just insane, they titter at each other from behind folded hands covering vicious lipstick slashed mouths hiding yellow stained dentures, pursed slightly with disapproval.
I saw him once, y'know. Just a few times. He was…completely different than I expected. He goes here to buy groceries, milk and stuff, pills too, same as anybody else, cept they mostly go to big supermarkets with lots of fancy stuff we don't stock, but he didn't really seem like a supermarket guy. Good for business.
I'm straight, at least I think I am, it's hard to tell these days if anyone really is anymore. I like girls, been on a few dates, at least when I'm out of the drugstore and in school and stuff, same as any kid. I like movie stars, especially Angelina Jolie. But he came in, and it was really weird, like he had something special about him, like, I couldn't look away. That English word, the vocab one we're studying in class, charisma, that's it. Not movie star brightness, the kind of veiled smiles actresses wear onscreen, or the soulful looks of the handsome men. I don't know. Sounds silly, doesn't it?
He wasn't well, or even decently dressed, I think the bums that hang around Chinatown and hold out paper and plastic coffee cups are much better dressed, probably. I was setting up the back shelves first time I saw him come in. Its really dusty and dirty behind there, so I was being all careful not to bump my head or get dust on my apron or sleeves, and I guess that was all I was thinking about. I heard the bell jingle, but I didn't need to rush out there immediately I thought, cause some people need to pick out they're stuff and don't want to feel pressured and watched and all that.
He was barefoot. That was the first thing I noticed about him, the dirt smearing the bottom of his feet. It wasn't hard to tell who he was, the resident odd guy/madman. He looked mad. Actually, he looked, I dunno, saner, than anybody I had ever seen before, but he wasn't looking at me. He really wasn't. He was looking for something, but he stared at the shelves in front of him, filled with odds and ends, as if he hoped to see happiness hidden somewhere. But he didn't expect to find what he was looking for, whatever he was looking for. But I didn't see that. Nobody did, or they saw him clearly and despised him.
He was leaning slightly back, staring at the top shelves, the coffee stained ceiling and murky flickering bare light. His shoulder bones were hunched, delicately wide and painfully thin and sharp against the grey cotton of his t-shirt. His mouth was compressed into a thin line, vague and unrevealing, eyes cloudy behind smoky lenses in gold wire frames. His glasses were slightly cracked in the corner, a fine filigree of tiny jewel like chips centering downward, like a teardrop stain he hadn't bothered to brush away. He turned to peer at me behind his slipping shades, one eye the color of old jade, the kind my grandfather used to collect and display on a shelf in our house over his chess board when it rained. I'd never seen anyone like him, not in our town.
He didn't say much, just asked a price, picked out what he needed, and went on his way. He didn't buy much, simply a few groceries, sleeping pills. It's odd, I remember everything he bought; yet no real description of him, it's all a haze somewhere in my mind, and I think if I just try, I might…I can't.
He had an ok voice, a little unnatural, but only if you looked for it. Kinda vague, blurry, somehow, like stormcloud edges, a faint hint of an accent, English, maybe. He sounded like he might be a shy guy, if he wasn't so impenetrable, with that faint hint of cynicism, not at you, but just, generally. Like an outsider's, someone who likes people, but finds them amusing because he's used to it. I thought it was unnatural, and it really was, yet somehow not out of the ordinary, not at all. It sounded slightly disused, hoarse, like he had worn it out screaming, or weeping, or as if he were choked with wineglass bottle shards, still faintly tasting of wine.
What a weird guy.
There's an odd man who lives down the street, at the end of the block, the little kid's park, yeah, you know the one with the swing set and the plastic slide? They say he's an artist, makes these weird sculptures, huge blocks of polished stone and the most beautiful carvings you've ever seen, but for someone who lives right near a playground, he doesn't seem to be very used to kids. He made that little boy that was so irritating a little sculpture, though. Just a twist of wire, but I've never seen anything so beautiful in my life. He looks so dangerous, though. Like an ex-convict, and the neighborhood almost petitioned for him to be evicted, but time passed and he didn't do anything dangerous, so really, I guess he's ok.
Such a strange man, though. He always buys steaks, and prefers to wear red and white, and now that I think about it, I guess it's a little bit disturbing, huh? But he dresses well, in loose drawstring pants and wide long sleeves, even if he does go barefoot a lot. Hmm. Maybe it's something in our neighborhood's water. He's a pretty good-looking guy, even with that scar below his eye. I've never seen eyes like his though; maybe it's contacts. You know those black eyes of his? I'd swear they were crimson in sunlight, odd as it may seem. My mom had a ring with a stone in it… Garnet, yeah, that's the name. Dark, clear and shadowy, unexpectedly deep, reminiscent of odd things, like watered blood and crushed stone, it's twisted, like there might be something inside of it, but you look just to laugh, because you know there really isn't anything in it. People mistrust him, but nobody really bothers to hate him other than murmuring resentfully behind his back, but it doesn't matter, because they believe they're in the right of it anyway. They're nice people, and to them truth doesn't matter. It doesn't, but their opinions would.
I've seen him a few times; almost everybody around comes in here for something now and then. He's not someone I could call normal, in any way. Not at all. I'm a normal kid, I watch movies and play video games and have a computer, and I've been freaked out more than once by movies, or horror books, but I've never been this scared in my life as when I first met him.
He was nice, I suppose, almost charming, but I wouldn't want him to be. I didn't know why I was afraid. He nodded good day, he shrugged resignedly on cue, but I was a small bug, a pebble underneath a concentrated burning glassy focus… I was unnerved, and defenseless and predictable, and he didn't care. I was scared of him. I wasn't afraid of him killing me. I was afraid of living with the knowledge of things I couldn't fathom, complicated and old and resigned and bitter, like acidic green leaves choking my throat with wet filminess, yet dry and choking, and understandable, within reach and so simply in my grasp…I didn't want to meet his eyes, even if I was unimportant.
How laughable. I wanted to go on with my mundane life, live forever, simply watching…perhaps.
He glanced at me, his voice vague and indistinct, something I couldn't quite hear that ran from me like the sand of an hourglass, unsuspicious and clear. I'd never seen anyone like that, so I tried to stop myself from staring and unfortunately failed, not that he paid attention to it anyway. Normality is crackling thin white plastic, with fingertips blossoming like bruises inside of it, patterns of red laser light, repetitious dusty cream-colored plastic aisles, dim lights and straining eyes. It wasn't what I was feeling; yet what was packaged in the thin shell of normality was what I was afraid of.
He looked ageless, but not invulnerable, like he was used to the mortal side of blood and the ripping and fraying of veins, muscle fibers and wet flesh. He looked inhuman, like an ivory statue with bones of wood, but he bought beer and milk and sugary junk food.
I was unsure of whether or not to be concerned for my soul, his teeth, or the cash register.
I've seen his house, sat outside in the playground a couple of times. It's really a beautiful place now, with trees like a watercolor painting dashed with water, idly surrounded by piled sun warm brick houses, awkwardly piled like a child's building blocks, the metal point of the stairs of the nearby train station barely visible and scrawled with rainbow graffiti, dully gleaming grey blue metal rising like smoke in the distance, the thick wild mixed grass and weeds, underfoot to be readily torn up, the color of the madman's eyes. It's a nice house, painted an unobtrusive dark sage green, something he hadn't picked out for himself, but was too lazy to change. Besides, it's sometimes a good thing to blend in, I guess. It's oddly shaped and unbeautiful, and reminiscent of a twisted step, one of the foldable ones that were stored under tall Victorian beds, and there are steps there, smooth mottled cement with fine cracks in the edges, but not enough to make it crumble, and an awkward stain glassed window on his door, not a beautiful thin one, but one with lumpy smooth curves of plainly colored glass, red and blue and green. His door is nice.
I've seen the mad boy's house, its at the intersection where the cars meet, the one with the little oasis amid the sea of cracked tar, the asphalt roughly painted yellow and filled with dying plants and the occasional struggling pansy, choking in the faintly darkening grey smoke. It's a beautiful house, really, even with the loose, battered paint of a thin, indefinable color, the grey brown wood of the house splitting into fibers. There aren't many plants that live around there, one yellowing vine that clings desperately to the side of the house, and thick bunches of wire strong weeds with tasseled and thickly seeded heads, are the almost the only plants that survive. The windows are dull and cracked; the glass brittle and filled with fine yellowy dust, and you can see him pass through now and then, relentlessly absent, lost in himself.
I wonder if they know each other. Maybe it's a stupid assumption, but honestly, who knows? They're both strange people. The artist/neighborhood alert guy, voted most likely to kill someone by the little kids, who, incidentally, play outside his house, has white hair, almost like the hair old people have, colorless and bleached down past the roots, while the other has iridescent hair, lavender ivory, almost moon colored. Maybe it's the anger in their faces when one hears of a theft, or the other sees a toy. No, that's not it, not really. It's the dejection I see in their eyes, the sadness. I wonder why they look so disheartened, like they miss something, like somebody just ran over their childhood pet, or a close family member died.
It's really none of my business, but I can't help observing.
Summer is heavy and humid, thickly blanketing all the people in its grasp with sleep, making them languid, bored, itchy and warm. Dusk gold and brightly glowing, the sun beats down on those foolish enough to choose to take advantage of the relative emptiness of the streets. The plants flourish, healthy and thick, glossy leaves shining brilliantly despite the lack of water in the matted dry dirt. Small winged insects buzz persistently around damp skin, delicately and unobtrusively tormenting them with future pains, and installing people with a more annoying sense of paranoia. In short, it sucks for the working class.
I wonder who'll come in today. What kinda person would be brave enough to defy the heat?
That day the window broke. It was hot and cloyingly sticky, and despite the numerous air conditioners, hovering like a child's crudely drawn fantasy, exhaling a chill that provided some relief from the torment of the sun.
I was irritated and bored, full of energy but not enthusiastic enough to actually do anything about it. Almost nobody came in except for a few kids, intent on their small ice cream purchases. There was a bug, I think, hovering around me, and I tried to kill it. I hate bug bites, even if I'm not totally squeamish about bugs.
I certainly didn't expect to hear the chime of the brass sleighbells, loosely tied by red satin ribbons in twisted knots that were oddly inappropriate for this time of year, that had often replaced the flat metallic buzz that preceded the footsteps of a customer. I attempted to present some show of respectability and attentiveness, but fumbling discarded the idea. I remember it was hot and too tiresome to move, and my legs felt vaguely like they were filled with heavy liquid glue, the edge of my vision blurred by soft edged grayish blurs, and moving would surely twist a muscle in my back, if even the awkward thin curve of bone poking my stomach wouldn't leave a bruise on my skin. I didn't expect to see him, the oddly disturbed boy, barely a few years older than me, walk in on the pebbled cheap sandstone colored carpet, seemingly unbothered by the heat, despite the crimson shade of his pale skin, kept that pallor by years of self-inflicted hiding. He didn't wear shoes, still, and I think I winced inwardly to imagine the torture on even the most calloused of heels against the unrelenting cement that made up our streets. His feet should have felt like they were bleeding by then.
He wandered in a way that made me certain he could find what he needed, and I was tired, too tired to watch him and be prepared to help him immediately after he was finished. I didn't see him but I think I could hear him moving above the absent roar of blood in my eardrums, hesitant yet deliberately choppy steps gently against the rough fibers of the fraying carpeting. A lulling sound, a small point of interest in a sea of utter blank boredom.
I think I dozed off, I don't think I would have missed such an unusual meeting if I weren't completely dazed. I didn't see, him, only felt the light rush of air flow invisibly into the shop, warm and smelling of sweetness, or the cruel ray of light that sliced across my eyes and against the glowing thin paper I had wrapped around the clear pointed shards of the shattered window. I felt oddly unaware and yet blissfully blank, and realized I was listening for something I couldn't hear. A breath. I couldn't hear him breathing. It felt, like for a while his heart had ceased to function, the air knocked out of him by one powerful thrust, like his lungs ached for air, but he was breathless for elation. And I could hear it.
Maybe it was a figment of my imagination. Maybe it was a hallucination brought upon myself by the heat. Maybe it was a daydream. I didn't even want to consider the possibility.
Truthfully, I'd never seen such an expression like the artist wore, and I don't think I ever will. Never. It made my knees weak, and my blood pound, battering desperately to my head. It was calm, though anything but complacent. Warring. He was dressed in a loose bloodred shirt that draped artistically across his shoulders; flatly tying in the front and light, almost gray pants and sandals. I focused on his clothes, trying to distract myself from his face; it was almost too overwhelming, too private. Then he shrugged and picked up a newspaper, rolling it up neatly and idly, and adding a package of cigarettes to the paper. I think the package of cigarettes was red and white, I studied it intently as if I t were my only lifeline, which it seemed to be, but somehow the words blurred and I couldn't see it, anything, but the harsh unrelenting posture of the two men. They weren't looking at each other, weren't even facing each other, but I've never seen two people more intent on each other, focusing on a single person till everyone else, anything else in the world disappeared into a same colored haze. The boy looked angry, his shadow's profile tense, the muscles in his throat straining against the skin like he wanted to memorize the other's pattern of breathing, the rhythm of languid gestures. The other looked deceptively calm, almost furious, eyes roving frantically yet unwilling to settle on the one he was looking for.
I don't know how he could stand to walk out of that door. I don't know why I didn't stop him, even if I had no idea why they were behaving that way, even if I knew for a fact they were total strangers, had always known and accepted that as a natural part of life. My life.
He left, and the tension in the room thickened from thin threads to taunt cords, multiplying, then disappearing like wisps of dark smoke. I was oddly, inexplicably, unrealistically happy, and it choked my throat, like the end of a burst of laughter, uncontrollable and welcome. I think, I think it was perfect. Everything was unexpectedly perfect.
The way I guess it should be. Even if I had no idea why.
They're both mad. I think. It doesn't really matter, but people have started asking me why I sell things to such potentially dangerous people. And I can't honestly answer them, so I just shrug it off, or listen to their irritating lectures about how I'm courting danger, and how madmen should not familiarize themselves with routine places, because they're unpredictable and how I'm not the only one at risk…
It's true that maybe I should be more unsettled about what they buy, but I don't think so. I've been scared my fill and then some, and I don't know who thinks I'm not scared anymore that really knows me. I shudder when I have to handle the raw meat and try to avoid wincing when I package the excessively sugary junk food and enough beer to kill most men, or at least supply the neighborhood. I'm still unnerved by the amount of delicate powdery pills and syrups in thin plastic bottles I handle, and the sound of so many of them, like light pebbles against cheap breakable walls is something I prefer not to think about.
Maybe so. But there are enough people dying everyday that whenever I turn the crackling radio on, restlessly flicking through the stations, so many I don't choose to listen indifferently to the news anymore, to process the information, as emotionless as watching a plant grow, like it no longer matters. I don't care anymore, because no matter how dangerous they are, and they are, because no one who has ever seen a feline kill can pet a cat comfortably again, no matter how I feel, as stupid as it may be, and odd this may be, I've simply stopped worrying about it. They're solitary people. They're fragile. They would easily kill me if it mattered. They may kill each other. But…
He still takes pills, so many I can barely count them all, but he doesn't take sleeping pills anymore. He still eats raw meat and sugar and drinks beer, but yesterday he looked at a woman, a mother, and actually saw her as someone.
I honestly don't know if they are going to be happy, I honestly don't know if they are going to hate each other, or pretend the other doesn't exist. I don't know who will take the next deliberate step, and if it will take a day or ten years. I do know that I've stopped equating my problems with world disasters, because I don't honestly know what a world is anymore, or what a disaster might appear to be or present. I guess I've stopped thinking about as many things because I honestly don't know. The first step has been set, however inadvertent their actions might have been, eventually they will follow through.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Imagine if Ryou and Bakura never met. Imagine if Yugi and the others saved the world, and set the spirits free, never meeting Bakura. How would it feel to never meet that special person, the one who actually provided changes in your life, the most important, and perhaps the most hated. I don't honestly believe Ryou would have remained sane despite the emotional scarring he receives in the original storyline. I don't think Bakura would have been able to cope with a normal life without a feeling of loss, either, regret for something that could have happened. One way or another they would have met, and whether or not what they felt was different, it would have happened. It would have needed to happen, in order for both of them to survive, even in a twisted way. What they do without the other, how they lived, would not change, but with each other they would have a chance to develop, to look around themselves instead of searching for the one they needed.
Both are complex people, with unclear emotions, so I think it would not be apt to give them a clear happy ending, but for them, this may be as happy as they will ever be. Like I said, this is a changeable story. I think that no matter how they avoid each other, it still won't change anything. It's like a dance, and the steps are simply waiting to acted out.
I regret to day this is the last of the drabbles. I may be persuaded to change my mind, but it's not likely I'll pursue this much further. Thanks to my reviewers, I needed them.
Silently Broken; thank you! For your information, het stands for heterosexual, or a male female pairing versus male male, or yaoi.
Pay for the groceries, talk to the watcher, and watch the bishounen dance.
