Abel Parrish + Fenrir (![]() ![]() @ 2017-04-08 17:18:00 |
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Entry tags: | fenrir |
no new knowledge can be extracted from my telling
Who: Abel.
What: Abel's reaction to his gift.
Where: #507.
When: Backdated to April 1.
Abel was on his way out when he found the box; how else might he have found it? It wasn't as though there'd been any sort of announcement. No knock, no post, no note. Dressed for work (yes, even on a Saturday -- no rest for the wicked) in a plain, light gray suit, a slightly off-white shirt's collar cresting gently over the top of his dress jacket, hand wrapped around the handle of his briefcase, he paused in the open doorway, eyes downcast at the black box on the floor. Then he bent enough to put his briefcase down, crouching to accept the box before glancing toward Nish's door. It didn't seem like something she would do; their relationship wasn't of that nature, nor did she even seem like the giving type. It didn't take years of schooling nor a psychologist's degree to understand that woman. Thin, white hands wrapped skeletal-like fingers around the box's exterior and lifted it into his apartment, closing the door behind him as gently as possible with a well-placed kick from his left heel.
He carefully set the box down on the small table he had for such items next to his entryway. A mirror was above that for a last-minute appearance check before heading out; a bowl to the side for keys and loose ends he didn't want to misplace. The rest of the space was available for whatever need he might deem necessary in the moment; now was such a time. His reflection mimicked his posture, his downturned head that watched the unveiling of whatever was inside the box without the barest trace of excitement. It was as though he were moving through predetermined gestures, his face blank, though once the box was open (the same fingers that had lifted it from the floor lifted the black bow-topped lid with more care than one might have generally believed him capable), slight confusion moved in the line of his mouth and brows.
Ensconced within like some sort of shadow box was an oil painting. The tiny canvas was stretched over an equally-small wooden frame, but that was the least of his interests. The painting itself seemed to resemble a Rorschach inkblot, the deep colors twinning on either side of the white stretch of space. His gaze moved over the lines, the shapes, drinking it all in. His head tilted to the side as he considered it, hands plucking and raising the thing from the box, brows drawing together. Most might have seen a giant butterfly, perhaps made of two hands jutting off from each other. Giant, orb-like eyes watching the viewer, perhaps judging. Or a copse of trees; or a mountain. Abel saw none of these; he turned the painting, as though it had been placed inside the box upside down, as though it were slowly revealing its true depths to him. Whatever it was on the canvas, the thick drops of paint did little to hide its fury.
He could see the rope twining around its form, wrapping, wending tighter and tighter as the canvas spun slowly in his hands. Fingers that had once gently guided the painting to its proper alignment curled inward, abruptly digging nails between the canvas and the frame, ripping it loose from its moorings with nothing more than a single unconscious pull. The thing on the surface did not sag; it fought, struggling to be freed from its bondage. He wanted to help it. He had to help it. Only he knew how well this thing had tried, and only he knew how this thing's freedom could be achieved.
The tightly-woven fabric pulled free, as if by its own volition. Abel did the one thing he could do, the thing he'd tried to do for Charlene and all the others -- he brought it to his mouth, and consumed it. He ate it, shoving it deep into the hollow of his mouth, teeth struggling to make cuts and tears to ease the process along. Saliva dripped from his mouth, the task overwhelming slightly as his reflection bore back exactly what he was doing, a cinema-scape of sound and vision that he would never forget. The paint tasted foul, acidic, clearly not meant for consumption, but none of this deterred him. Inhuman sounds followed his actions; snorts, grunts. Piece by ragged piece, he swallowed it down, pulling it into him, making it a part of him. Because it was -- it already had been, and until then, merely separated. He was correcting the error. By the time he was done, he was breathing hard, bent over the table and the box, its innards showing wet spots from where his drool had dotted it. And now it was empty, staring at him with no comment, its job complete.
Abel took a few deep breaths, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Eyes came up (flashing yellow? Pupils dilated? Were they even his?) and he stared at himself in the mirror, hand pressed to his lips as if he were going to prevent some catastrophic thing from ripping free of him. Then he forced the hand down; straightened himself, his clothes, his hair. It was time to pull the human suit back on, this fleshy thing, this cotton exterior that did not so much protect him from the rest of the world, but the rest of the world from him. He put the lid back on the box, leaving it where he'd set it, and collected his briefcase.
He was going to be late.