7. Living in the fog (part 3)
Chalk changed, too, it seemed. Red became pink.
Pink became cream. Overtime, he learned to care for them, to prolong their lifespan, to store them up. Thus augmenting his array of hues from one to three.
O Come…
After he'd concluded each imperfect imitation of his dreams, every one larger and bolder than the last, winter milked over the colors and dulled them to whites and silvers.
And Peter Lake tried again.
O, Come…
He'd perfected the skull and the moon. Two circles, really, when it all came down to it.
The hair looked glossier and glossier by the stroke. The white of the frost-caked pavement adding glistens of pink to the thick red mass.
The fingers had taken form, though the hand itself still looked boneless.
Slowly, Peter Lake was perfecting this new kind of theft. Widening his all-too-forgotten skills.
I'm a thief, and I'm a damn good one.
Even though, upon finishing each drawing of the little red-haired girl, her flabby white hand raised to the moon, disappointment crawled back in at the end of his productivity.
And Peter Lake fled from it, finding another unspoiled patch of concrete and lowering to his knees and starting again.
His fingers were turning rigid. One day, maybe they'd crack too.
Snap!
Went the white chalk. The moon, the cheek, the fingertips.
It was alright. It didn't matter.
He'd find it again soon enough, in this fog. He'd bite out the blanched nothingness and steal his own colors, if desperation returned.
In little time, lo and behold, he'd found another white chalk and taken it in and started again.
Again, and again…
O Come…
The red chalk went and returned.
And he tried again.
O Come…
Who was she? Who was she?
This image he'd maintained, belonging to nothing he'd actually known?
Had he seen this face, had he known the crease of the cheek, the artificial texture of the all-too bright hair, he'd remember… He'd remember more, at least.
Who are you?
He tried again.
His hands were becoming warmer too. Stronger, quicker, and pooled with heat.
I fear opening my eyes and discovering you were never here at all…
He craved to know the face of 'the warmth'. The color of her skin and her hair and her hands.
He craved to be able to draw her.
He hoped drawing this stranger helped bring forth more solid memories.
That I imagined-
Snap!
Went the pink chalk.
And Peter Lake's eyes caught the sharp, blinding light. He winced, recoiling, his shoulders spiking.
When he lifted his head, he heard laughter. The fog breathed in, breathed out.
"Old Saint Peter!"
The sound of heat. Not warmth, but heat.
There was a voice in the fog.
Author's Note: To anyone who is here today, thank you for reading.
Today, to make up for lost time... you're getting two chapters. I've been painfully stressed and lowkey a bit depressed lately, with this being my last year of uni and the pressure coming on all sides (from finding a job, getting chastised about not socializing enough, feeling like crap in general, the usual)... so I'm returning to poor Peter for a moment XD His suffering in the fog is almost over, I promise. Cause now... my dear Cecil is back :3 I missed him.
See you next time, here's your hug. *hug*