He spends most of his nights after that drawing at his window, letting his pen take him to places he can only imagine. Usually it's after his mother has gone to bed; she's the last to arrive home after work, and she takes longer to fall asleep. But, the moment he hears snoring coming from down the hall, Ynk pulls his notebook and pencil out from underneath his dresser, drawing whatever it is that comes to mind.
At first, it's whatever he could find in his room. He spends a few nights walking back and forth, from the window to his desk to the bed, mapping it out and locking the imagery in his mind. He draws, sketches, erases, breaks lead and his weary patience, until the entire layout of his bedroom is marked on paper, getting better and more detailed with each piece.
It makes his heart sing, seeing his progress. I'm getting better, he notes, thumbing one of the pages. Progress is good. That means I'm learning—that has to amount to something, right?
...Wish I could show someone, though...
When he tires of drawing the familiar scenery, he turns to drawing Faces; his parents, his siblings, teachers. Friends.
They all look the same.
It irritates him. I wonder what they look like without the masks, he wonders, and it's this that gives him the idea.
He starts with Maia. He pictures her as she was before her birthday, imagining her smile and laugh, mind wandering to the day of his birthday when she'd teased him about getting his Face. The memory makes his heart ache, wishing he'd only known at the time how complicated things would become.
He turns the ache into inspiration, and he finishes the portrait before the sun rises.
He repeats this with Kurt, his mind immediately finding his expression from the roof. Determined and devastated. He has to bite down on his tongue to keep from crying the entire time, though he's ashamed to admit that he couldn't stifle all of his sobs.
He moves on to Ralph, his parents. Other relatives that come around for birthdays and holidays. Even his teachers—though really, he's never seen their faces, so he can only guess.
Nix is the easiest, of course, as he can see her face no problem.
"Brother, that tickles," she snickers as he pokes at her cheek, judging how chubby they are and wondering how he'll draw them out.
"Sorry," he apologizes, though he doesn't stop. He taps at her shoulder instead, noticing their angled, not round. Looks are deceiving. "You're just easy to mess with."
"Don't tease your sister, Ynk," his mother says from the couch, reading the paper. Ynk catches a glimpse of the cover: "GROUP OF TEENAGERS ARRESTED FOR CRIMES AGAINST THE CAPITAL."
Sounds serious...
"I'm not teasing her; that's immature."
"Well, you're being immature. So, stop it."
He does, though he doesn't stop prodding, turning his attention instead to his mother. "Hey, Mom?" he asks.
She shifts to look at him from the newspaper, "Yes?"
"What color are your eyes?"
She's taken aback by this. "My eyes?" she wonders aloud, hand coming up to cover where her mouth would be. "Why do you want to know that, dear?"
"Just curious." He shrugs. "I just wonder, because I know I don't have Dad's eyes—I see them at dinner. But I never see you at mealtimes, and they're closed when you're asleep, so I've never seen them."
YOU ARE READING
FACELESS
General Fiction[Originally written in 2017 for an assignment; expanded and reworked overtime, though eventually I decided this was as far as I was going to go with it. Hope you like it!] As is customary when one reaches twelve years of age, the Order has manufactu...
