Motion by Medasin
So, as I have been having a horrible case of writers’ block, I have decided to write about something that is forever a source of inspiration to me; Music. Now, how I appreciate music is unorthodox (look up synesthesia) so this is how this series (?) is going to work; I will put the song title as the title of the post so you can listen to it as you read (pretty please?). I see scenes and colors in music, and I always have. This series allows me dive into that part of myself by allowing me to write what I see in certain songs. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it.
The sky was stormy; grey and filled with rolling, angry clouds that seemed ready to drench him as he walked down the windy road back from school.
Everyone else had gotten picked up by their parents, but Otis was alone.
He didn’t mind it anyways; it had always been like that and probably always would be. Besides, walking home with people meant inevitable conversation and small talk that he rarely wanted to participate in.
The air was cool through and through, the warm undertones of summer having vanished over the past few days, to ne replaced by the chill of cooler temperatures.
Otis breathed it in as he walked, relishing the way the cold air filled his lungs and expanded his chest; washing him clean. He’d always loved lower temperatures, the way it never made him sweat or feel uncomfortable, there was no clamminess on his forehead and no dampness in his armpits. The cold was clean and refreshing.
He knew it would start to rain soon, but he couldn’t bring himself to lengthen his strides and cut short his walk home; he would be wet and he would be fine.
It was in moments like these that Otis’ senses seemed to really widen out; he could hear the crunch of gravel under his feet, feel the wind blowing cold and clean against his face, see the way the leaves of the trees that lined the barren road undulated in the wind, he could almost taste it too, as the smell of ozone and coldness filtered down the back of his throat.
When the first crack of thunder boomed, Otis was not afraid. He looked up at the dark sky and waited for more.
It was darker now and he was alone on the road as the wind stirred up loose stones and gravel, the sound oddly redolent of the intro before a song started.
Otis pushed his hands deep into his jacket pockets and continued his almost leisurely pace until he saw the other boy.
The boy was standing twenty yards ahead of Otis and facing his direction, on the same side path Otis was on, his lithe, willowy form completely motionless, apart from the wind blowing through the loose white shirt he wore. He seemed to be the same age as Otis; in his mid-teen years.
He has to be freezing
To Otis’ added surprise, the boy was barefoot. Seemingly only dressed in the white shirt and loose trousers that seemed to be made of the same material.
The boy’s eeriness gripped Otis so, that he did not notice himself halting till he came to a standstill. Shaking his head, he resumed his strides.
It was just one boy. Albeit a curiously weird one.
As he got closer and closer Otis studied the boy more and more. Which was easy as in conjunction with his motionlessness, his eyes were also closed. His skin was a sable dark brown, and his head was shorn clean. Otis idly wondered what it would feel like under his palm; soft and smooth or prickly with freshly growing hair.
Closer and closer Otis got and yet the boy did not open his eyes. He appeared lost in his own mind, perhaps a deep meditation.
So, consuming was the enigma of the barefooted boy that Otis barely noticed when the first drops of rain fell.
The boy did not move as Otis approached and he found himself also slowing, staring at the boys’ closed eyes and strong form till he came to a stop a few feet in front of him.
There was an electricity in the air, like static, but more alive and forceful, like the dark boy was pulling him closer with some unseen power.
It was raining now, the cold water coming down in slanting sheets, quickly drenching Otis and the boy too. But Otis didn’t mind and the boy didn’t even flinch.
Otis stepped closer, almost without his own volition to do so and the boys eyes opened.
The static gravitational pull that had been present prior seemed to increase tenfold. The boys’ eyes were trained on him, colder than the rain that whipped around them. They did not look like the eyes of one who had been in deep trance; he looked at Otis with full alertness and a piercing gaze that made him shiver.
Yet all he wanted to do was move closer to this heartbreakingly beautiful boy, because as his eyes opened it seemed like Otis’ fully opened too. Now he could see how perfect the shape of the boys’ face was, could see how exact the arch of his cupid’s bow was, see how smooth and luminous the boys’ skin was, even under the sluicing rain.
His was a beauty you revered, one you worshiped and dreamt about and prayed to.
Otis seemed to lose control of his limbs and found himself now immediately in front of the staring, silent, seraphic boy.
The rain and wind faded into the background as the boy reached up towards Otis face, his fingers were frost, as they trailed down his cheek, ice, they seemed to radiate an unearthly cold that he could feel in his bones, deep within his belly.
But Otis could not pull away, did not want to pull away, this boy could freeze him to death and he would be grateful.
As Otis continued staring into the boys’ eyes, like the cracking of a great iceberg, suddenly he could see visions in those fathomless blue depths of frost and cold. Otis saw vicious winds rip holes in the earth and freeze men alive, their horrified screams still in their throats. He saw meager fires snuffed out by icy gale and the fingers of frost grip the world, shattering it into a thousand shards. He saw countless human eyes glaze over with first fear, then horror, and, at last, frost.
Yet Otis did not, could not look away from these visions.
The boy was still and silent as he showed Otis what would become of this world, how the world would not end in fire, but in cold, hard ice.
As the visions came to an end and Otis slowly returned back to a semblance of alertness, he realized that he could not feel his limbs. He knew it was the beautiful boy, knew the boys touch was frost and death and destruction, knew that this was how he would die; staring into the most beautiful eyes he would ever see.
And in a way, he felt a selfish kind of relief, the visions were of people dying horrible, gruesome deaths. Now, in the moment of his own demise, there was no pain, no terror, just the abyss of the beautiful boys’ eyes.
