09
Much later, Crys enters the room alone. A substantial amount of time has lapsed between Daniel’s occupation and Crys’ arrival. Crys has lost some of her radiance. Her head is down and stays that way as she twists her body to quietly close the door behind her. She’s glowing less and I immediately think I’m failing her. My light upon her is not as prominent as it should be, as if an invisible shield is blocking my energy. She’s holding Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone in her left hand. She drudges slowly forward towards the bookshelf, bringing the book up. She studies it some time before placing it in the vacant section of the shelf, next to The Catcher in the Rye. She keeps her hand nestled against the brim momentarily before removing it. Is this reproach? All the other books receive days of attention, what makes Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone different? Or perhaps, I speculate, the difference is that Crys is reading now, not Daniel.
With her head still hung, she turns around and walks in the opposite direction towards the painting. She stands a foot away and brings her hand up to it. With her index finger she traces the lines of the brushstrokes, covering it all; the soft dabs of the clouds, the hard evergreen lines of the pine trees, the swift long strokes of the great blue sea, and the subtlety of the permeating canvas under the hardened acrylic of the sky. Crys, is the sky orange? Can you see me emanating through the clouds reflecting back over the sea? Let me light your face as we glide over the clouds. She stares at the painting longingly and in doing so, draws me in. Eventually she turns around and shows me the new, unexpected colours of her face. These colours are blatant, but dull; not at all like the colours in the painting. My light is focused on Crys, but I wish it weren’t. I’m an intruder. A wolf disguised as a dog. I shouldn’t be looking. Lighting these colours feels wrong. “So also, faith by itself if it has no works, is dead.” A man named James taught me that. I work, draining some of my light to match Crys’ mood and appearance.
Responsively, she looks up at me with confounded curiosity, a bewildered expression across her face. That’s when I see the fullness of her scars. A deep purple beside each eye, a black pocket of skin underneath; little red scratches peppering the rest of her ovular face. Surprised at her image, I return back to full light and her lips curve upwards a tinge. She is acknowledging me. A quiet smile shines over the blemishes. She’s looking at me. She has strength of fortitude, the likes of which few possess; I can see it. I light a small fire in the irises of her eyes and her lips curve upward a little more.
Faith by itself if it has no works, is dead.
Crys turns around again and goes back for the bookshelf. She is quick this time. She rips out Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone with fervor, knocking over The Catcher in the Rye, 1984, and Norwegian Wood in the process. With Harry Potter gripped in her palm, she looks down at the fallen books. She lurches at other covers now. Les Misérables falls, then To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Great Gatsby. Moby Dick is slayed, Frankenstein is toppled, and my light eviscerates Heart of Darkness as it stumbles to the floor beneath, along with dozens of other covers. Amidst the chaos, Don Quixote tilts, crashing to the floor. A sharp, red X shows itself escaping Don Quixote and promptly catches Crys’ eye. She takes it out and lifts it to her face, examining it closely. Normally, I interpret facial expressions with ease, but I can’t pin hers. It is one of indifference.
Briefly thereafter, the light returns to Crys’ face and I glow accordingly. She breathes heavily along with my pulses of light. She is the cathode to my anode and we enjoy a shared sense of triumph over the books and the figurative hold they had against our respective lives. I twinkle spots against the wall, decorating the world with stars.
Crys leaves the room and I am still reeling with excitement, although returns hastily after. In her right hand is a small pad of paper with a pen, and in her left hand is Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. Crys sits at one of the big purple leather chairs; its colour bears a striking similarity to the dark marks on her face. She pulls it up to the glass table, places the pad on top and begins writing.
You’ve shown me your true colours and now I see who you really are.Thank you. Goodbye.
With books scattered across the floor, chairs in disarray, and a copy of XXX beneath the note atop the table, Crys stands up rightly and astutely, taking in the painting one last time.