Sometimes when I get really tired and I'm sitting in front of my computer with Microsoft Word open, weird things happen. When I wake up the next day (I fall asleep on my desk) I still have Word open but it's all filled up and when I read it, I don't recall writing all those words down but I recognize that it is my work. This is not the first time it happened but this is the first time I'm posting it publically.
The story is very vague and many people can decipher it in many different ways. I don't want any votes or reads or anything like that but I really want to know what YOU think about this. What am/was I trying to say and what is the real story of this? What does the title mean? If you can help me out by commenting I would extremely appreciate that.
The Beast of Manhattan
The windy street of Manhattan is a busy one especially on a chilly late fall morning. The sun has slowly made its way up from the horizon and the waves of wind treat the people with shivers. People are shuffling around, going to their destination without noticing anyone's presence but not bumping into them. They are in their own little worlds, their own little lives — thinking about dinner, meeting plans, boyfriend, girlfriend, cats, and dogs. They do not care about the people they may accidently bump into or the person their eyes meet for that split second.
One man is the same as the rest of them. He does not stick out of the crowd that it almost seems as though he is trying too hard to fit in. His black coat hangs over his shoulder and the beanie hat on his head covers his ears well enough. Unlike most pedestrians, he does not have earphones dripping down his ears. He feels comfortable with the white noise of the city.
He straightens his shoulders, moving the coat to fit him better, but the scarf that conceals half his face begins to slip off. His heart races for a few seconds, but he slips his scarf tighter to him as if it is a second skin. In a way, it is. He uses the scarf as a shield, a shell in which he lives behind.
Quickly but quietly, he enters the subway, bumping to people more often now. He does not know exactly where he is going, but he knows he is going somewhere. When the train slows down, he takes one step inside, then another foot, keeping his head down and watching his step. He scans the room with one glance, spotting on near the back where it was the most empty and he feels his heart lighten as he finally rests his legs. It has been a long journey, but it is not over yet.
His eyes search for a map although it will do him no good, but he searches for one anyways. The train moves. He gives up shortly and watches the window that draws the darkness of the subway tunnels. He does not know what he is looking for outside those windows, but he is searching mindlessly.
He taps his foot in mild impatience although when he thinks about it, he does not know why he feels that way. His hands begin to fumble together, the brushing of his fingers going unnoticed in the subway train. The train stops again and more people leave as others walk in. He pays no attention until the train begins to move again.
Out of habit, he looks up again to see if there is a map but he knows if there was no map the first time, the map would still be absent. He was right.
He takes the liberty of scanning the train again when this time there was something that was not in its normal spot. It was a pair of gray eyes — eyes that created storms and rain clouds, eyes that danced in a trance.
He holds the stare, knowing that the person will look away in embarrassment or simply ignore it as if the eye contact had never happened, but the pair of gray eyes is still watching. His hands go straight for the scarf on his face, pulling it up self-consciously, suddenly feeling naked and vulnerable. There is something about the eyes that seem to strip away the outer appearance he deceives people with and takes out the inside that has never come out. He did not know one's stare can hold such power.
He zooms out of the pair of gray eyes, although still keeping the gaze locked like a promise, and notices the orbs belonged to a young woman. Her chestnut colored hair hits her eyebrows in bangs, but she wears a winter hat to keep it all in place. Some locks of hair are sprouting out of the hat, gently touching the soft skin of her neck and cheek. Her nose, tinted with a slight pink, seems to stand out against her porcelain skin. Earphones appear down her hat like most of the people in Manhattan but there is something about her expression that tells him that she is not listening to any music. There was no sign of rhythm.
His eyes had never left hers even as he took in the other features of this young woman. Their eyes still remain locked and he wonders when she will give up. There seems to be something more to her than just her strange eyes. She seemed to be telling him something through them although there is no muscle on her face that moves. He speaks to her with his eyes, wondering where she is going or if she is lost in this world just like he is.
The train stops again for the next stop but even between people walking in and out, their eyes are glued on each other. There is an announcement on the intercom about the stop, but it goes unheard by him. The train begins to move again.
There is someone else sitting beside her who nudges her. Even through the nudge, the young woman continues to look at him, her face full of blank expression but he knows that she is reading him carefully. There is no judgment in her eyes, but he still feels the urge to pull up the scarf in fear of frightening people.
The nudger is confused with the young woman's inability to turn towards her that another pair of eyes begins to look at him. He feels his body growing warm by the attention but dares not to move any muscle and continue to watch this young woman with content surprise.
The nudger is saying something to the young woman but where he is sitting, he cannot hear anything nor read their lips. The young woman finally breaks contact, the escape of the deep gray eyes stunning him that he has to gasp as if he ran a mile. There is a coldness that hugs him, the warmth now drained into an abyss.
The train stops again but this time the young woman stands up with her nudger. The nudger looks at her with some sort of pity, The young woman has one arm right above her nudger who had her arm face up towards the young woman as if they were about to dance to a Renaissance song.
He stands up quickly, unable to take his eyes off of her. They had an entire conversation with each other with their eyes — a communication that is indescribable.
He gets up from his seat, getting off the train as soon as the doors began to close. He made it just in time but the crowd of people moves him along to one line. He quickly finds his way out of the fishes and looks for the young woman. He finds her even before she turned around to look at him. He knew it was her the moment he laid eyes.
He notices that she is still with her nudger; driving around people, he reaches his arms, tapping her shoulder.
The young woman freezes and turns to her nudger, not daring to look at him. The nudger recognizes him from the train and turns to face him signaling him to come closer.
"She is blind." The soft whisper seems so loud and clear in his head compared to the loud sounds of mumbled people, fighting their ways out of the station.
"But she sees," he replies. The nudger laughs heartedly and pats his arm.
"This is a smart one!" The laugh echoes inside his head.
The nudger will not say anymore but the young woman turns to the man, staring at him with her gray eyes again. He did not know what her story was but she did not know his yet but he knew for sure that she knew more than what meets the eye. Maybe that is why she knew — because she could not see but she did see with a different vision. He knew at that moment that she was staring at him, not just his appearance but his soul and for the first time, he took off his scarf.
