Behind the door
The days ran into each other long ago. It's only by the light streaming through the library windows, or lack thereof, that he even knows whether it's day or night anymore. He drifts through the library like a ghost these days, retreating to remote stacks whenever he catches so much as a glimpse of another sentient being, or ducking back into his room, arms wrapped around a stack of books.
They can't see me like this.
Don't let them see me like this.
Soze's neglect has taken its toll, despite Jeff's best efforts at keeping starvation at bay. He's lost weight, his clothes loose, his eyes sunken and his cheeks hollow. Wasting away. Pain, a horrible, gnawing emptiness from a stomach that's not even his, keeps him from sleeping, leaving his eyes bloodshot and his face pale and haggard. He can't remember the last time he shaved, and his hair has gone from brown to a dark, colorless gray, lank and disheveled.
He keeps to his room more and more now, knowing all too well what would happen if he let too many people see him in this state. They'd drag Soze away. They'd try. And Soze would kill them both.
He's killing us both now.
He presses his lips together at the thought, pushing it violently away. He begins to type. The words don't matter. Anger, betrayal, hate, pain...it all flows through him and onto the screen. It's a chaotic jumble at first, but his whirlwind thoughts begin to coalesce as he types, edits, erases, and types more. Pain becomes a parasite, a monster within. An enemy. One with a story. A story that whispers in his ear with a voice clear and sweet.
It all fades as he loses himself in words. Hours pass, or perhaps days. Sometimes he falls asleep where he sits, only to wake up and start right back up again, his dreams telling them their own stories. Over and over he reads the words, types them, erases them, changes them, nursing the story like a beloved child, shaping it like a doting parent.
At last there's no more to be said. Another story born, beautiful and terrifying and perfect.
His.
He gathers up the pages, fresh from the printer, and neatly binds them up. There's another bundle of pages nearby.
And another.
And another.
And another.
He takes them one by one, stacking them neatly and packaging them with exquisite care. It's a package that Keyser will find on his doorstep some time later. Inside, a dozen stories, all of them familiar in some way. Bits of their shared pain, drawn out and given vivid and sometimes gruesome life.
Attached is a note, with a simple quotation:
"Pain is no evil unless it conquers us."
--George Eliot
They can't see me like this.
Don't let them see me like this.
Soze's neglect has taken its toll, despite Jeff's best efforts at keeping starvation at bay. He's lost weight, his clothes loose, his eyes sunken and his cheeks hollow. Wasting away. Pain, a horrible, gnawing emptiness from a stomach that's not even his, keeps him from sleeping, leaving his eyes bloodshot and his face pale and haggard. He can't remember the last time he shaved, and his hair has gone from brown to a dark, colorless gray, lank and disheveled.
He keeps to his room more and more now, knowing all too well what would happen if he let too many people see him in this state. They'd drag Soze away. They'd try. And Soze would kill them both.
He's killing us both now.
He presses his lips together at the thought, pushing it violently away. He begins to type. The words don't matter. Anger, betrayal, hate, pain...it all flows through him and onto the screen. It's a chaotic jumble at first, but his whirlwind thoughts begin to coalesce as he types, edits, erases, and types more. Pain becomes a parasite, a monster within. An enemy. One with a story. A story that whispers in his ear with a voice clear and sweet.
It all fades as he loses himself in words. Hours pass, or perhaps days. Sometimes he falls asleep where he sits, only to wake up and start right back up again, his dreams telling them their own stories. Over and over he reads the words, types them, erases them, changes them, nursing the story like a beloved child, shaping it like a doting parent.
At last there's no more to be said. Another story born, beautiful and terrifying and perfect.
His.
He gathers up the pages, fresh from the printer, and neatly binds them up. There's another bundle of pages nearby.
And another.
And another.
And another.
He takes them one by one, stacking them neatly and packaging them with exquisite care. It's a package that Keyser will find on his doorstep some time later. Inside, a dozen stories, all of them familiar in some way. Bits of their shared pain, drawn out and given vivid and sometimes gruesome life.
Attached is a note, with a simple quotation:
"Pain is no evil unless it conquers us."
--George Eliot