As I cut through the warm breeze with my papery blades, I’m looking around for more interesting things in inviting places, and I believe I’ve found just the one. I slip quickly through the window of an interesting man who my blurry eyes can’t quite allow clear description of, attracted by the sweet smell of vibrant flowers. It’s bright and warm in his humble home, and I feel safe, for some reason. I wouldn’t in most places. He’s different. He sees me as I descend silently to his counter, and I see him as he waters his daisies. They’re breathtaking. Even for all the beauty and warmth here, it somehow feels… empty. Hollow. He looked happy, but I don’t sense any within him. I just sense something like a strange mix of contentment and stress, or nervousness. It feels off. Sad. As he puts down the pitcher he had been using to water his plants, he seemed to glance longingly at the well maintained dusty-pink walls of the living room, and then transitions his view to one of the visceral, hungry maroon wallpaper of his kitchen where he now stood. That was the truth of this house, and the truth of this man. Duality.
Deep beneath his joyful exterior there was a woeful hunger which he regretted, but could not sate. He had long struggled with it, and had traveled just as long, searching far and wide for the perfect person, the perfect place, to finally end his suffering for good. One way or another, I know he will. I know he’s in the right place. This is his home, and it always has been. He has a lot in common with this town, and whether or not he knows it, he’s perfectly familiar with what lurks in the shadows of this old, cheery town. Suddenly, I see him glance out the window. He perks up, replacing his mask with a more genuine smile, a sad smile, and begins making long strides to his door, prepared to open it. A knock is made as soon as he reaches the door, and he opens it, revealing a young woman, likely about twenty-two years old. She has lovely, light brown hair down just past her shoulders, and crystalline green eyes that have a shocking presence that seems nearly independent of the rest of her being. Her face is angular and sharp. Somehow soft, while also being wise and aged far beyond her years. The man is quite taller than her, than many around him likely, he is as Mount Serin is to Jones Hollow in some ways. In many other ways, is a perfect personification of the town itself. I fear for this woman. I fear not for the safety of her life, but the stability of her psyche, and the wholeness of her soul. This is destiny, and it is nearly disturbing.
I took in all of this as if I was merely a fly on the wall, for, truth be told, that’s all I am.