Status: still in progress, updates coming whenever i've got the inspiration.
The Test
the hell back home
William's habit of prolonged eye contact freaked me out a little. His gaze did not drop as fast as it should have, and his reactions seemed a little delayed, as if he was debating with his own internal voices.
I wanted to hear these voices, and to understand a hundred percent of the sketchy emotions he played through his childish smile.
"So, what do you think of the new kid?" Alex asked, evidently fed up with having to sit beside me in silence after waiting to catch the bus with me.
Fascinating, to say the least.
"He's alright."
"Bit of a weird one,' he chuckled to himself, "I asked him a question and he just gave me this funny look..."
Oh.
The wide eyed, head tilted to the left, vibrant, electrical grin with incisor teeth just a little too pointy sort of funny look?
"Yeah, he pulls that face a lot," I agreed.
"Not really a man of many words, huh?"
I nodded.
No words at all, but an emotional depth to him I could not reach. I needed to find my way through these barriers inside his skull without hurting him, without breaking him.
His silence accentuated the way I saw him. I regarded him as somewhat delicate, a possible victim without voice, and had developed an overwhelming desire to be protective and possesive od him.
"You've not said much this afternoon either," Alex interrupted my thoughts, "And I know you can talk, Gabe. Half the time you never shut up."
I despised the idea of one sided conversation, and this was the only way around.
"You got something on your mind?" Alex continued, "You can talk to me about it, or something."
Not something.
Someone.
"It's nothing," I sighed.
Pixie-grin boy. I had invented my own voice for him, a pretty, innocent voice, certainly not a rough one, and somehow I could see him as a singer, possessing an assured, yet angelic voice. He would speak with a calming quality to his the way he spoke.
Imagination is a funny thing, as it is twisted and warped by our own experiences. Subconsciously, I had given a beautiful voice to the boy, despite having never heard him speak so much as a whisper. I was creating him in my own mind, trying desperately to compensate for the missing parts, the gaping abyss in communication.
He still spoke softly, and often fell into silence, but was never trapped in it. It was like his honest, shy characteristics had remained firmly rooted, but his fears had been torn away and he had been set free.
My William Beckett.
I wanted to pick up a wooden stick and smash the frail cocoon.
I wanted to hear these voices, and to understand a hundred percent of the sketchy emotions he played through his childish smile.
"So, what do you think of the new kid?" Alex asked, evidently fed up with having to sit beside me in silence after waiting to catch the bus with me.
Fascinating, to say the least.
"He's alright."
"Bit of a weird one,' he chuckled to himself, "I asked him a question and he just gave me this funny look..."
Oh.
The wide eyed, head tilted to the left, vibrant, electrical grin with incisor teeth just a little too pointy sort of funny look?
"Yeah, he pulls that face a lot," I agreed.
"Not really a man of many words, huh?"
I nodded.
No words at all, but an emotional depth to him I could not reach. I needed to find my way through these barriers inside his skull without hurting him, without breaking him.
His silence accentuated the way I saw him. I regarded him as somewhat delicate, a possible victim without voice, and had developed an overwhelming desire to be protective and possesive od him.
"You've not said much this afternoon either," Alex interrupted my thoughts, "And I know you can talk, Gabe. Half the time you never shut up."
I despised the idea of one sided conversation, and this was the only way around.
"You got something on your mind?" Alex continued, "You can talk to me about it, or something."
Not something.
Someone.
"It's nothing," I sighed.
Pixie-grin boy. I had invented my own voice for him, a pretty, innocent voice, certainly not a rough one, and somehow I could see him as a singer, possessing an assured, yet angelic voice. He would speak with a calming quality to his the way he spoke.
Imagination is a funny thing, as it is twisted and warped by our own experiences. Subconsciously, I had given a beautiful voice to the boy, despite having never heard him speak so much as a whisper. I was creating him in my own mind, trying desperately to compensate for the missing parts, the gaping abyss in communication.
He still spoke softly, and often fell into silence, but was never trapped in it. It was like his honest, shy characteristics had remained firmly rooted, but his fears had been torn away and he had been set free.
My William Beckett.
I wanted to pick up a wooden stick and smash the frail cocoon.