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Literature Text
"When people look at me, what do they see?"
"What?"
"When people look at me, who is it they see?"
Johnny's feet came into Edgar's line of vision, black and white striped socks. Because the floor was hot and the room was cold, he'd said. Edgar's eyes travelled up past one of those worn-through socks: past Johnny's ankle, barely visible under the just short hem of a pantleg; past the almost-graceful curve of his knee; up his chest, hollow-looking and caved beneath his favourite shirt; and finally met black eyes that blazed through blue bangs that hung in the way with the tilt of Johnny's head.
"Do they look at me, or do they see me?" he said to the floor, "Do they really reject me for the way I look? Or is it not what's on the skin, but what's below it, and they can see? Can they sense it- the fact that I'm not quite right, that something inside of me has long ago become unplugged?"
Edgar slowly sat up from his perch between the couch and the television. Johnny's sock feet finally came unglued from a floorhoard and paced across the room, allowing him to mutter to one wall, to the next, and back again, "Humans are far from intelligent, but they can sense it. They see the blood under my fingernails and they know." he continued when Edgar blinked, adjusted his glasses, and stood. He pushed himself up from the floor with his palms. "They might look at me and miss it, but every once in a while someone comes along who sees me, and when they see, they know."
Edgar hesitated, then slowly made his way to the place where Johnny had stopped. Johnny continued to ramble on darkly and under his breath. He jumped when Edgar's fingers made contact with him, spreading wide along his shoulder, Edgar's thumb resting securely on the crook of Johnny's neck. "When I look at you," Edgar stated calmly, "All I see is my friend."
"Then, you're blind."
"What?"
"When people look at me, who is it they see?"
Johnny's feet came into Edgar's line of vision, black and white striped socks. Because the floor was hot and the room was cold, he'd said. Edgar's eyes travelled up past one of those worn-through socks: past Johnny's ankle, barely visible under the just short hem of a pantleg; past the almost-graceful curve of his knee; up his chest, hollow-looking and caved beneath his favourite shirt; and finally met black eyes that blazed through blue bangs that hung in the way with the tilt of Johnny's head.
"Do they look at me, or do they see me?" he said to the floor, "Do they really reject me for the way I look? Or is it not what's on the skin, but what's below it, and they can see? Can they sense it- the fact that I'm not quite right, that something inside of me has long ago become unplugged?"
Edgar slowly sat up from his perch between the couch and the television. Johnny's sock feet finally came unglued from a floorhoard and paced across the room, allowing him to mutter to one wall, to the next, and back again, "Humans are far from intelligent, but they can sense it. They see the blood under my fingernails and they know." he continued when Edgar blinked, adjusted his glasses, and stood. He pushed himself up from the floor with his palms. "They might look at me and miss it, but every once in a while someone comes along who sees me, and when they see, they know."
Edgar hesitated, then slowly made his way to the place where Johnny had stopped. Johnny continued to ramble on darkly and under his breath. He jumped when Edgar's fingers made contact with him, spreading wide along his shoulder, Edgar's thumb resting securely on the crook of Johnny's neck. "When I look at you," Edgar stated calmly, "All I see is my friend."
"Then, you're blind."
Suggested Collections
Song Without A Name = ~ladyyatexel's.
Johnny and Edgar = Jhonen Vasquez's.
April 14, 2009.
Copied from old account. Working backwards through that gallery: things will get better.
Mine.
Johnny and Edgar = Jhonen Vasquez's.
April 14, 2009.
Copied from old account. Working backwards through that gallery: things will get better.
Mine.
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Comments4
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This is very good ^^