William
At the back of the theatre, there is a small room. It is the type of room that would never quite be large enough to walk around in. It seems grim as the harsh light of day shines through the barred window, washing out all within to a sickly grey. She is not the prettiest of rooms and she knows it, watching on as her rival is showered with applause and shouts for an “encore!” The only noises this room ever hears are the grating of pigeon’s feet as they land on the roof and the distant call of the night watch to symbolise that another futile hour has passed on by.
The door is made entirely from oak wood, with a large brute of a lock sitting aimlessly without a key. The doorknob is made of copper, perhaps once beautiful and polished but now is worn and dull like a forgotten penny. It opens with an unwelcoming screech, a little too big for its frame, dragging itself across the stone floor weakly, like a tired child who is ready for his bed. The door is far more eager to close than open and swings shut silently, giving the visitor only a second before it seals them in.
The room overall does not conjure a feeling of happiness, nor of sadness, simply a sense of indifference. It does not stand out, if it were lined up with other rooms of its type, it would blend in like a single grain of sand on a mile-long beach. The whole room can be taken in with one glance and it is not difficult to remember. To the right, there is a small gap, serving as a window without any glass. Just underneath is a large crack in the wall, meandering like an asp and it leads from the window to a very plain desk and chair. That is all. The room would not look out of place in a prison- maybe a cell to confine the insane, or maybe just somewhere to hide from the rest of the world and create a masterpiece. After all, the line between insanity and genius is very fine.
The desk and chair don’t match one another; the table is made from a very dark wood, almost ebony and the chair a lighter colour similar to the door. The chair legs are all different lengths and it wobbles unsteadily when sat on like a rowing boat caught in a tempest. In fact, nothing in the room quite matches. The coarse, lime plaster of the walls and the buffed floorboards conflict like the Montague’s and the Capulet’s.
At closer inspection, the desk is covered with etchings and engravings, the contents of somebody’s mind scrawled across it like a chaotic work of art. A little drawing of fairies dance across the surface, a ruptured love heart and the noble face of a king. The residue of ink stains decorate it like small stepping stones, the invisible trail of a quill still clinging to the air.
The hand that usually holds it is just as unimpressive as the room. The skin washed out to a dull, nude colour, lacking in vitamins and care. Spindly fingers grip on, seeming lacklustre compared to the swan white feather they write with. Yellowed fingernails round them off, a little too long and fractured, splits running halfway up as brittle as old bone. From time to time, he pushes his delicate hands through his hair, strokes his beard gently and returns to his quill like a true devotee. The hair is greying slightly, with wispy, white wires falling unruly around his face. He’s tried to tie it back with a thin piece of string, but it keeps coming loose near the nape of his neck. Although it needs washing, laden with grease, he doesn’t seem to notice or care, embracing his dishevelled side.
It frames his face, although it isn’t an attractive one, just entirely unappealing. His forehead is far too large, the skull protruding slightly like Poor Yorick, with the hollows for his eyes beginning too high giving him a gaunt look. It holds a constant crease, which runs along the width, a flaw on an otherwise blank canvas. Sometimes, the eyebrows knit together when he concentrates too much like a long brown caterpillar perching on his face. His features are out of proportion, completely asymmetrical and from most perspectives, ugly. Like pieces of coal, his eyes sit on a bed of blandness, never quite intense enough to penetrate, but perhaps with a hint of passion which doesn’t quite surface. His lips are washed of colour, the top slightly thinner than the bottom and when he rarely smiles, it’s crooked and always half-hearted. They are chapped and dry, as far from crimson and blushing as the moon is from the Earth. He tries to keep them shut as often as he can- providing a curtained hideaway for his browned teeth which, those that still remain, stand like rotten, miniature tombstones or a decaying troop of soldiers. They provide a stale breath, which he tries not to inflict on anyone but the curled parchments, which never seem to mind.
His dull, shoddy clothes probably have more colour than his face. A plain doublet dresses his thin body, hanging on him like a boy wearing his father’s too-big clothes. The russet sleeves are rolled up slightly, somewhat damp with sweat and dried with bloodspots from previous tavern brawls and near misses. A faded white shirt lies underneath, tied at the top in a criss-cross pattern, although not tight enough as stray chest hairs spiral through like Macbeth’s conscience that will never be contained. Leather shoes cover his small feet, with the soles worn, almost falling off and the leather itself cracking like a pod. He taps them softly against a table leg as he writes, making a blunt knocking sound- a soothing annoyance. Sometimes, the pigeons grating on the roof accompany him providing the percussion as the night watch’s shout gives the melody.
It is not a beautiful room. Nor is he a beautiful man. Yet somehow, deep into the night when reality is asleep, the two create together. And that is the most beautiful thing of all.
I love the sad undertones you leave with the reader, they left me feeling like there should be no hope for the man, but still wishing for him to get out of the room. I would love to read more of this. Please PM me if you write more.
