Status: Finished.
Ebony and Irony
1
"You poor dear!" Mrs. Sanchez repeated, leading me through the upper story hallway to the end, where a black door stood semi-ajar. She stopped, hand on my shoulder, in front of the foreboding door that read "Claudio" in red paint, messily written. She knocked twice, waiting patiently, before it opened noiselessly.
"Claudio, this is Lydia." He nodded, bushy hair falling about his face while his hard eyes took me in. I bowed my head, willing his stare to end. He nodded, in my peripheral vision, and his mother urged me on with a gentle push on the back, resulting in my legs stumbling their way to the middle of the room, and Claudio's door to shut.
His room was fantastic, in shades of red, black, and white. Heavy curtains hung over large windows on the right side of me, while I faced his door. To my left, was a bed of huge proportions, and several instruments. I turned behind me slowly and briefly, catching sight of a television and stacks of music taller than I was.
"Here," he mumbled, voice deep and eyes glassed over as he gently took my box from my little arms and set it by his music collection. "You'll have to sleep in my bed, sorry," he continued, walking back past me to his bed and falling upon it, hair fanning out as he stared at the ceiling.
I nodded. I was meek, at best. He didn't take notice of me as I sat on his floor, next to my belongings, and as far from him as was possible in such confinements. I must've sat there for an hour, I was sure, before Claudio sat up and grabbed his glasses from a stooped table by him. He turned his eyes to me.
"Would you like to come sit on my bed?" he asked me kindly, still mumbling in his bass tones. I shrugged. I honestly didn't know what I wanted. "Come on," he said softly, crossing the room and holding out a hand to help me up. I released my grip around my knees, and he helped me to his bed, sitting cross-legged across from me again.
"Thank you," I said, my voice almost a whisper. My eyes teared up at the sound of it. I was so weak, so alone. He moved and sat next me, arm around my shoulders.
"Please don't cry," he whispered, pulling my head to his shoulder, tears spilling out already. His hands were feather light as he stroked my chestnut colored hair, dirty and knotted. I tried so hard to keep myself from sobbing into his shirt, I repressed the shudders to my own small frame.
"It's okay," he whispered into my hair, holding me tighter. I sniffled, embarrassed of my stupidity. My number one rule was don't cry in front of other people. I hadn't even cried in front of my parents. My parents...
I looked up at him, feeling hideous when his eyes met mine and he didn't glare or speculate, but observed. "Sorry," I tried to laugh, sitting straighter without his help. He smiled a little, letting it falter after thirty seconds and completely letting go of me.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked me softly, like a friend. I smiled a little, and nodded, taking most of the night telling him about my parent's and grandmother's deaths. He seemed understanding enough, hugging me at well past two in the morning without a word. I yawned and he got off the bed, lifting the sheets up for me to climb under.
"Things will be better here," he whispered as he laid a foot from me in the dark room. I could make out his bushy hair and smiled a little at the prospect of a loss of ironic jokes with no humor. "I promise."
"Claudio, this is Lydia." He nodded, bushy hair falling about his face while his hard eyes took me in. I bowed my head, willing his stare to end. He nodded, in my peripheral vision, and his mother urged me on with a gentle push on the back, resulting in my legs stumbling their way to the middle of the room, and Claudio's door to shut.
His room was fantastic, in shades of red, black, and white. Heavy curtains hung over large windows on the right side of me, while I faced his door. To my left, was a bed of huge proportions, and several instruments. I turned behind me slowly and briefly, catching sight of a television and stacks of music taller than I was.
"Here," he mumbled, voice deep and eyes glassed over as he gently took my box from my little arms and set it by his music collection. "You'll have to sleep in my bed, sorry," he continued, walking back past me to his bed and falling upon it, hair fanning out as he stared at the ceiling.
I nodded. I was meek, at best. He didn't take notice of me as I sat on his floor, next to my belongings, and as far from him as was possible in such confinements. I must've sat there for an hour, I was sure, before Claudio sat up and grabbed his glasses from a stooped table by him. He turned his eyes to me.
"Would you like to come sit on my bed?" he asked me kindly, still mumbling in his bass tones. I shrugged. I honestly didn't know what I wanted. "Come on," he said softly, crossing the room and holding out a hand to help me up. I released my grip around my knees, and he helped me to his bed, sitting cross-legged across from me again.
"Thank you," I said, my voice almost a whisper. My eyes teared up at the sound of it. I was so weak, so alone. He moved and sat next me, arm around my shoulders.
"Please don't cry," he whispered, pulling my head to his shoulder, tears spilling out already. His hands were feather light as he stroked my chestnut colored hair, dirty and knotted. I tried so hard to keep myself from sobbing into his shirt, I repressed the shudders to my own small frame.
"It's okay," he whispered into my hair, holding me tighter. I sniffled, embarrassed of my stupidity. My number one rule was don't cry in front of other people. I hadn't even cried in front of my parents. My parents...
I looked up at him, feeling hideous when his eyes met mine and he didn't glare or speculate, but observed. "Sorry," I tried to laugh, sitting straighter without his help. He smiled a little, letting it falter after thirty seconds and completely letting go of me.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked me softly, like a friend. I smiled a little, and nodded, taking most of the night telling him about my parent's and grandmother's deaths. He seemed understanding enough, hugging me at well past two in the morning without a word. I yawned and he got off the bed, lifting the sheets up for me to climb under.
"Things will be better here," he whispered as he laid a foot from me in the dark room. I could make out his bushy hair and smiled a little at the prospect of a loss of ironic jokes with no humor. "I promise."