I know he is watching me.
I can feel his eyes in my back this very minute, as I move my pen gracefully across this page. He's standing behind the small window, not even an inch of bare space between his window and my own. His arms are folded over his torso, one hand clutching the other's wrist, in his large black tunic. I'm not looking, but I can tell this all because of that one time that I turned around and caught him. He ran away from the window the second he realized that my eyes were on his body, like a frightened dog. After seeing such a horrific appearance, I did not dare look again.
I continue writing. To tell you who I am in full would take me a while. In short, I am an author, a poet and a composer, but mostly a poet. I don't write the kinds of poems that describe beautiful scenery or whatever; that's too boring. I prefer the ones about death, paranormal things, and the ones that make you jump and squirm in your seat. When I read my poems to a crowd at art gatherings and such, the audience gasps and whispers, and there's the occasional scream as well. Recently, parents have been advised to escort their children out of the room before I read one of my poems aloud.
He's still there, shifting from foot to foot as I write. His grey hair covers his eyes completely, but I can still feel them in me. It's irritating, almost.
That's enough, I decide. Time to inquire him.
I stand up pretending that I don't see him, and move cautiously towards the window. I open it. His is already open.
"Oh, sorry," I say to him, pretending to have just snapped out of a trance. "I didn't know that-"
"It's alright, m'lady." he says. He sounds somewhat frightened. Then he looks at my desk. "And what would you be writing, I ask?"
" A poem." I respond a little to quickly.
"May I see it?"
"Alright, if you wish."
I walk back to my desk behind the window and pick up a poem I wrote just under an hour ago. It's called The Plea, basically the topic being a storybook character making a plea to another, and the reader is forced to guess who it is. I hand it to him. He lifts his bangs up to get a better look.
And then I see his eyes.
They're a sickly yellow-green color, and seem to reflect the sunlight off them like a cat's does with moonlight in the night. And he has several scars running around his eyes. Most would probably shriek in horror and run away at the sight of this, but I stay put.
Because my face isn't something people would want to look at either.
I can imagine what he's seeing, each and every word becoming clear to him...
Look at you
you pathetic thing,
cursing and ranting and crying, too.
Why do you feel the need to flee
from a normal human being
like me?
I can take you away from here
this terrible place
of gloom and drear.
To a wonderful place
where the sun always shines
showing it's beautiful, smiling face.
You've lived with me here all these years
and look at you now,
you've burst into tears.
Please, sir, if you just give in,
it will be like all of this
had never been.
Come over here with that golden key
to open this cage,
and set me free!
I've been a bodyguard to you,
I've injured men
and slayed some, too.
Old friend, do you hear me now?
You've forgotten me, it seems,
and I wonder how.
I hope that you will treat me well,
and I will come out now,
Henry Jekyll.
He looks up from it and exclaims. "This is wonderful, but who's making the plea?"
"Edward Hyde." I respond. "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?"
"Ah, yes." he nods. "I've heard a lot of talk about that book even to this day. Is it any good?"
I go back into my house, come back and hand him the book. "Why don't you decide for yourself?"
He takes it, studies it for a moment, then looks up and says, "I generally don't read, but this looks good. Also, can I keep that poem?"
"Later." I say. "After I present it tonight."
"Alright," he hands me back the sheet. "Perhaps we can speak again soon? I have business to attend to at the moment..."
"Alright."
"Bye, then."
"See you."
He then shuts the window and goes back inside.
And I admit, I can't wait to see him again.
I can feel his eyes in my back this very minute, as I move my pen gracefully across this page. He's standing behind the small window, not even an inch of bare space between his window and my own. His arms are folded over his torso, one hand clutching the other's wrist, in his large black tunic. I'm not looking, but I can tell this all because of that one time that I turned around and caught him. He ran away from the window the second he realized that my eyes were on his body, like a frightened dog. After seeing such a horrific appearance, I did not dare look again.
I continue writing. To tell you who I am in full would take me a while. In short, I am an author, a poet and a composer, but mostly a poet. I don't write the kinds of poems that describe beautiful scenery or whatever; that's too boring. I prefer the ones about death, paranormal things, and the ones that make you jump and squirm in your seat. When I read my poems to a crowd at art gatherings and such, the audience gasps and whispers, and there's the occasional scream as well. Recently, parents have been advised to escort their children out of the room before I read one of my poems aloud.
He's still there, shifting from foot to foot as I write. His grey hair covers his eyes completely, but I can still feel them in me. It's irritating, almost.
That's enough, I decide. Time to inquire him.
I stand up pretending that I don't see him, and move cautiously towards the window. I open it. His is already open.
"Oh, sorry," I say to him, pretending to have just snapped out of a trance. "I didn't know that-"
"It's alright, m'lady." he says. He sounds somewhat frightened. Then he looks at my desk. "And what would you be writing, I ask?"
" A poem." I respond a little to quickly.
"May I see it?"
"Alright, if you wish."
I walk back to my desk behind the window and pick up a poem I wrote just under an hour ago. It's called The Plea, basically the topic being a storybook character making a plea to another, and the reader is forced to guess who it is. I hand it to him. He lifts his bangs up to get a better look.
And then I see his eyes.
They're a sickly yellow-green color, and seem to reflect the sunlight off them like a cat's does with moonlight in the night. And he has several scars running around his eyes. Most would probably shriek in horror and run away at the sight of this, but I stay put.
Because my face isn't something people would want to look at either.
I can imagine what he's seeing, each and every word becoming clear to him...
Look at you
you pathetic thing,
cursing and ranting and crying, too.
Why do you feel the need to flee
from a normal human being
like me?
I can take you away from here
this terrible place
of gloom and drear.
To a wonderful place
where the sun always shines
showing it's beautiful, smiling face.
You've lived with me here all these years
and look at you now,
you've burst into tears.
Please, sir, if you just give in,
it will be like all of this
had never been.
Come over here with that golden key
to open this cage,
and set me free!
I've been a bodyguard to you,
I've injured men
and slayed some, too.
Old friend, do you hear me now?
You've forgotten me, it seems,
and I wonder how.
I hope that you will treat me well,
and I will come out now,
Henry Jekyll.
He looks up from it and exclaims. "This is wonderful, but who's making the plea?"
"Edward Hyde." I respond. "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?"
"Ah, yes." he nods. "I've heard a lot of talk about that book even to this day. Is it any good?"
I go back into my house, come back and hand him the book. "Why don't you decide for yourself?"
He takes it, studies it for a moment, then looks up and says, "I generally don't read, but this looks good. Also, can I keep that poem?"
"Later." I say. "After I present it tonight."
"Alright," he hands me back the sheet. "Perhaps we can speak again soon? I have business to attend to at the moment..."
"Alright."
"Bye, then."
"See you."
He then shuts the window and goes back inside.
And I admit, I can't wait to see him again.
