It was a strange feeling of freedom for her. Living life in the dark cover of night never led to anything bad, she was sure. Augustine clutched her cover over her shoulders. Sometimes, occasionally, people mistook her for a shadow. All the better, she thought.
Her blue eyes glowed in dim light that managed to slip between curtains on the high city’s windows. Her ears twitched occasionally, mistaking a leaf’s whisper for the falling of a K. Her eyes darted around at those times, hoping to see something ahead of her. Augustine’s pupils dilated and adjusted to the lack of light in the city alleyways; the moon was gone, a new moon soon to be established.
At some point, Augustine had a house. Not a home, mark you, but a house, some place to be at the end of the day, but not quite a place to live, not quite a place to raise a family. Not that she had any, nor did she want any. Someone like her could never be what they wanted, for words were their weakness and their strength, with no sense of physical depth.
She then walked into a wall. Her nose scrunched up against her face, almost hiding for cover from the thick, blackened-ashed bricks that stood in front of her. At some point she must have made a wrong turn and walked straight into someone’s living room– or, at least, she would have, had that wall not been there. Everything on her person bounced back. The bag on her side jingled a little, but it always did, since she kept so many pieces of paper, quills, and bottles of ink in case something ever came to her. Which it did.
Solid, she wrote. Made of bricks, stacks like packs or solids; alternating, repeating, thick, unbreakable except when it breaks. No cracks except when the light hits it; cold and unforgiving except when inhabited by a family. Unmovable except when built; stay out of the way.
A strange thing goes through Augustine’s mind when writing. It’s like a song, but less truthful. A sunlight that you can almost taste; it’s similar to the thrill of simply sitting calmly at your homemade table that you built when you were ten. It’s purple to the touch.
That’s not only because Augustine was blind, but because there was a certain blue rose about her.
Augustine walked on, her quill shaking with every step and ink spilling all over the ground as well as her cover. She stared blindly ahead, spiderwebs intermingling in her pupils as she did so; the blue in her eyes became covered, overshadowed by the black lines that wanted to get from one place to another so badly that they weren’t willing to stop for anyone.
Her shoes clicked silently on the stony roads, completely unnoticed by the looming buildings side by side at her side. She occasionally brushed her hand against them to see if she had perchance reached the end of the world; she never did.
Her mind drifted to other matters at an attempt to keep back any impulses that she might have had. Words and sentences kept forming in her mind and in front of her blind eyes but there simply wasn’t anything to see. The lack of substance utterly annoyed her, kept her fuming on the inside while her face remained expressionless. She fought with her bipolar bears in her mind’s frozen wasteland as she kept trudging on, forgetting the last thing she saw, she heard, she said, she thought. About life. About the reason for being where she was. It was all quite depressing and yet enlightening, somehow.
One of Augustine’s eyelashes quivered before falling softly, roughly onto her cheek, completely ignored. It ruffled in the wind for a long moment before utterly flying off on its own, an inanimate object living its own life with its own virtues and decisions; Augustine didn’t miss it.
Her cover caught that same wind when ever a car passed. It also soaked up the water that seemed to constantly be splashing onto her– or, at least, the water that would be splashing onto her if she didn’t wear the cover. Her skin, her white as ash skin, was kept dry. Augustine was far too afraid that the water would stain her skin to do anything more drastic than that. That is, keep the water off of her at all costs. Not that she had a choice, most of the time, what with being blind.
City streets are unforgiving. Unlike most inanimate objects, they remember. They remember if you’ve been there before, what you’ve done there, and why you went to them. For love, some claim, to sing outside her window. For shelter, shout others, because I have no where else to live! But Augustine, oh no Augustine, was trying find the words.
Once at the edge of the city, she paused. Unsure of what to use as her guide now, she quickly stepped forwards and hoped for the best. She looked blankly, dumbly onward as she stayed on the well worn dirt road, being sure to place her hands ahead of her in case there was a tree, or perhaps a bush. There wasn’t.
She kept walking down this path which was lined with rocks until she heard the babbling of a brook. Curiously she placed one foot ahead of the other and she touched water. Losing her footing, she slipped in, easily, silently, her bag and all falling into the water.
I was a strange peace in the liquid; it was certainly clear at some points, and yet at others the ink seemed to block out any light that could possibly want to be within the substance. Augustine rushed to the surface of the water and breathed in air like it was something new, unheard of. She saw her black ink spread out continuously, staining the pristine water, as well as her clothing, forever.
And that was all she wrote.