Doors Halloween (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} doorsween) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} doorslogs, |
His eyes were a quiet, sapient black. Like the beginning of time, with a depth so infinite that it didn't seem like there should have been able to have been anything beyond the darkness. But there was life. He seemed very afraid of nothing at all, nervous of the people that surrounded them and nervous of the furnishings, probably nervous of the air too if he let himself get that carried away. There was a lot to worry about when he wasn't in the attic, he was just now realizing.
He'd already hurt the girl with the rabbit ears, even if he hadn't actually hurt her. Her hand looked like the pillow he'd once had. There were enough bad dreams over the time in the attic that the pillow hadn't lasted very long. By the time it'd been stabbed beyond the point of functioning any further, his father had been dead and gone, so there was no way to procure another pillow. Which was a shame, because he liked soft things like pillows. He did so wish that he'd known about things like death and forever and away, so that he might have planned better for all of his future pillow needs while his father had still been around. In any case, his life was a pillow-less one these days.
He studied the disparate nature of their hands. Hers spilling fluff and his purely cutlery. When she asked if he had cotton on the inside as well, he stared back at her in frozen, awkward silence for another full moment. "I don't know.. but maybe," he prevaricated gently. It seemed like a good idea not to commit to not having stuffing, because this was the longest that anybody had talked to him since his father had gone away, and maybe she wouldn't go away so fast if she thought he had fluff inside. It was a white lie, which didn't seem that dangerous at all to him on most days. He could vaguely recall lying to someone before he'd ever come to this party, although he could not remember who it was or what he'd lied about. He thought that he'd lied not to hurt someone, and his knives flicked self-consciously with the awkward recollection of just how often he hurt people. All the time.
"The hurt came later because life is painful. That's what being grown up and real is about."
He frowned when she pointed at his face, going quiet again, and one of the scissor blades shot up, self aware. He touched his cheek before he could remember that he wasn't supposed to, and the pointed scissor gouged him briefly. Wincing, he dropped his would-be hand, and blood dripped from the miniature cut on his visage, very red against chalky skin that never saw a true day's sun. He stared at her again, and more of that awkward silence preceded any kind of explanation that he could think to come up with. "I'm sorry," it seemed reasonable to apologize for hurting himself because he didn't want her to be afraid. "It doesn't hurt," he lied. "Maybe I'm not real, too." He was very lonely, after all. And if real wasn't supposed to be lonely, then what did he know?