Esta noite, tive um péssimo sonho acerca de… bem, romantiquices, e acordei muitíssimo mal disposta com um peso não identificável no peito-barra-estômago. Eu sei, anatomia, who cares? Afinal era só desilusão por não ter passado de um sonho.
O que nos leva ao post de hoje, um mini episódio escrito num momento de carência sentimental. O POV é do Vergil, e isso justifica o facto de nada disto ter chegado à obra final. Blue Velvet é inteiramente contado pelo Nigel, portanto uma quebra de narrador seria a morte do artista.
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He’s wearing blue frames today. Turquoise blue, glittery frames that make his eyes stand out in ways that shouldn’t be allowed. Nigel Avinger shouldn’t be allowed and he knows it.
He knows he’s completely over the edge about everything. He knows, and I know, that he’s not biting his black nails because he’s nervous. He knows and I know, that he’s doing it because I’m staring. He knows and I know I hate it.
The finger moves slowly, from between his teeth to his bangs, mechanically flicking them aside. Wish I knew what he’s looking at. Thinking about. Maybe nothing, He’s that shallow.
I hate that about him. How shallow he is, how vain, how insecure. I hate how he thinks so low of himself that he can’t even leave the house to grab some coffee without looking like he just walked out of some high-fashion photoshoot. It’s degrading. His eyes are not blue, they’ve never been. His hair is not this bleach blonde color. He’s not this skinny. He’s not this flamboyant. He doesn’t suffer from myopia.
He isn’t this artificial. He’s real underneath all this. Underneath that perfect eyeliner and the perfect skin that’s kept like this with five different tonics and lotions.
He takes the glasses off. Slowly puts them on the table, with ceremony, respecting the hundreds they must have cost. He doesn’t see anything differently but I know I do. One step closer to reality. He closes his eyes, keeps like that for a while, forcefully closing them until his forehead wrinkles, just enough to look like he’s frowning.
_Something wrong? _I can’t help but ask, while I bite the straw of my milkshake.
Eyelids slide up, for the millisecond the contacts take to go back to place, I can see a hint of silver eyes. They never liked them. They never liked the simplicity of grey eyes. Just blue. Just this fake manufactured blue that hits me every time I look and try to see beyond the obvious. It’s not possible.
_My contacts are killing me. Forgot to take them off last night, my eyes burn like hell.
_Take them off then.
Three, two, one, le smirk.
And then a kind-ish smile that catches me completely off-guard.
He gets up, kinda forgot how tall he is. Sits in the bench next to me, stares for a moment.
_No.
I laugh.
_No?
_No.
_Okay, then.
_You take them.
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fasten your fiction 
Tu dizes que gostas da minha escrita, mas a tua apaixona-me. Quer dizer, só nas primeiras palavras já me fizeste o coração dar pulos. Consegui mesmo sentir empatia com o Vergil.
Comentar por anacnunes 25 de Janeiro de 2009 @ 23:26Excelente caracterização e expressão dos sentimentos.
YAY, empatia com o homossexual! 😀
A sério, adoro estes dois, portanto é muito fácil escrevê-los. Mas prefiro sempre usar o POV do Vergil, só que cometi o erro de começar e habituar o people ao do Nigel.
Agora é tarde para trocar. LOL
Comentar por fashionyourfiction 26 de Janeiro de 2009 @ 09:53