Indelible

We all love the stories, love the games of pretend. The escape from a world that never seems to end. We love being the author, controlling each twist, but this time you are the character. And you're next on my list.

There is no dimly lit room sprinkled with drafts and screwed up paper. No lingering scent of parchment and ink. The desk is not worn, no fingers drum against its surface, this story wasn't written within the confines of such a tangible world. While no one knows him, he knows every detail that makes up them. This Boy pieced together their stories with care.

The Girl that currently has his attention is unique. She is selfless within all the selfishness. She knows kindness when others know greed. She knows forgiveness but others simply want revenge, and will burn what's left of their minuscule world to get it.

The vibrant streets are dulled by the canopy of clouds. The sick huddle in the plaza, desperate for the Girl to take the pain away, to shed some light on this relentless gloom. They dump their problems on her in exchange for a moment, just a moment of hope.

She gives her time to those who need it most, but time is precious to those with death at their door. I find it fascinating that one can help the hopeless in the way she does, without fear of ending up like them. The Boy, who is just as curious as me, is torn between protecting her from the infectious disease, and giving it to her in the largest dose just out of curiosity. Because he can't help but wonder; who will help her?

A middle aged man of shaking hands and vacant eyes walks up to the girl. Without a word, and with barely a glance in her direction, he extends a crumpled piece of paper towards her. She reacts with kindness, taking the grubby note with gratitude towards the man who walks off with no knowledge of the interaction. The Girl watches him go with concern, but her curiosity soon turns her attention to the paper. A magazine cutting really, with the only blank spot covered in pen that had to roll over and over the surface multiple times to leave any mark. It reads;

"Meet behind the clocktower."

Does she hesitate? Yes, for just a moment. She expects this mysterious person needs her help. That's the only thing anyone needs from her.

As she hurries into the alley behind the tower, she encounters a figure that appears younger than the man who gave her the note. She sees hair like a mess of spilled ink, with angrily drawn eyes lurking beneath. He is at home in the shadows of the tower. And is certainly not the messenger of the note, however as the Boy steps aside, the Girl sees the familiar shaky hands jerking along with a convulsing body. The messenger lies in a slit of light that only just glows through the narrow alley. The Girl rushes to the messenger and he looks up at her, finally acknowledging her existence.

"You sent him to me with the note." She guesses, "Why?"

The boy of black and white steps closer, albeit sticking to the comfort of shadow. "I wanted to show you that you can't save everyone." He replies with a note of empathy that surprises even me.

The man's lips go purple and he sputters blood. The girl comforts him, giving him a small memory of kindness to take with him in death. The messenger smiles for a moment in gratitude, closes his eyes before going limp on the ground. The Girls eyes are blank.

"Why?" She asks again. "I don't need to save them." She stands and brushes her hands on her dusty bloodstained jeans. "Who are you?" Her face is flushed and her lips pursed. The Boy doesn't need those signs to know the kind forgiving girl is angry.

"I don't know." They reply. It's not the first time they've thought about it. I've wondered about my own existence too. "But I'm not human."

She tilts her head, eyes looking the Boy up and down. She reaches out and brushes his arm with her fingers. My vision wavers, the letters swimming on the page. As they settle I find that some are out of place... His shirt and skin share the same texture; the smooth surface of fresh parchment. And the folds of fabric leave the Girls fingers tipped with ink.