Fate. A predetermined supernatural power. The will of the universe. Fate is order. It writes, and rewrites, gives and takes. It spins vibrant red strings that flow into the world and connect people who are destined to meet, to love, to share a story...
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I grind my teeth together and watch him as he gently traces the cloud-like figures on the wall, running his thumb across the masses of blackness like I myself have done so many times before in a mindless attempt to wipe them away. But this darkness is permanent. I can't rid myself of it, no matter what I do.
"What the fuck are you doing?" I bark at him. He visibly flinches, then stiffly brings his arm back down, pressing it to his side.
"Get the f-fuck away from there."
He turns around, and I don't know what I expected to see in his face, but it definitely wasn't those cursed empty eyes again.
"You should sit down," he says evenly, moving away from the wall and reaching into his pocket. "I want to take your temperature to see how bad your fever really is." He steps closer, and with a swell of something like desperation, I search his face for a sign-any sign of anything. Confusion, sympathy, disgust.
This wall is a manifestation of my pent-up rage. I don't believe for a damn second that he has nothing to say after seeing it.
His eyes dart around the room for a brief moment before they land on a small stool that he pulls up to the side of my bed. He sits down slowly, then looks at me. I begrudgingly lumber over and collapse onto the bed before him, only because it was getting difficult to keep standing, and continue to murderously glare at him as he slides a thermometer through my teeth.
His lips purse together ever so slightly when he looks at the readings on the device. "It's not too serious, but you'll need to rest for a couple days."
"Just say it," I snap. He glances up at me, his mouth falling shut. "I know you have something to say about it," I growl impatiently, gesturing towards the wall. "So get it over with." Does he think I'm crazy? Or does he think I'm pitiful? Which is it?
The idiot's facial muscles don't so much as twitch as he sits there, unresponsive.
Dealing with a faceless person is a bit like walking in the dark. There's no way of knowing whether you're saying the right thing. Every word you throw at them, every plea, and every poisonous dagger are lost on that face carved from glass. Every act and decision is one blind turn after the next, until you inevitably hit a dead end.
This guy just left a pot of water to boil downstairs, for fuck's sake, I remind myself. He's not like them. Don't be like that.
My stomach twinges with nausea, and beads of sweat have started to slide down the sides of my face, but I pull myself up straighter on the bed.
"Are you seeing this?" I snarl, the words tumbling out of my mouth, uncontained, like the scribbles on my wall. "I did that. Because I can't put a fucking plug on my feelings like you do. Don't you give a shit?" My breaths are coming out in short bursts, and I'm hit with a sudden wave of dizziness, but I push on. "I know that you've got feelings too." The shitty fever is really starting to get to me. "Don't be a fucking machine."
