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Entry tags:
the color invisible
Summary: Pearl is Godot's daughter.
Pearl had tasted coffee, once.
Mystic Maya and Mr. Nick had taken her to a cafe, where Mr. Nick had somehow ordered a coffee. She had asked for a sip, if that was all right with Mr. Nick and Mystic Maya, but Mystic Maya vehemently denied her the drink. She produced statistics like a magician pulling scarves from their sleeves, talking about how it would stunt Pearl’s growth and how it was bad for the nerves.
But Pearl was still curious, and when Mystic Maya and Mr. Nick were busy elsewhere, Pearl had taken a small sip from the large, white cup. It was a strange taste that lingered in her mouth for a while, that scorched her tongue and stung her mouth and tasted bitter, unpleasant, but she still wanted more.
That was not the time she tasted coffee.
--
“Come in.” Godot opened the door to his broken apartment, paint flaking off the walls and lint springing from his threadbare couch. The textbooks filled the corners, spilling off bookshelves into neat stacks against the walls. Fumbling for a moment, he found the light switch, and the dim light slowly illuminated the rest of the room.
She was disconcerting, he thought. Her eyes intensely staring forward, her silence emitted a foreboding gloom. She clutched at her pink suitcase defensively, examining every aspect of the room before she put down her suitcase by the television.
“Your room is down there,” he said. “The bathroom is across from your room.” He had cleaned it up, fit for a little girl now, though the window didn’t quite close and the floorboards squeaked. After Mia’s death, he hadn’t found it within him to build up an empire where gravestones lay.
She didn’t say a word.
“Are you hungry?” he finally asked, scratching his chin. “I’ll whip up an omelette. My speciality.”
She shook her head.
He took her suitcase, which felt light and unreal in his hand, and strolled down the hallway to the open room, where the shutters had barely pried open enough to allow slim light to sneak through, revealing a ruffled bed with white sheets.
“Mr. Godot,” she said, her voice small but strong. “Why didn’t you have the lights on?”
He didn’t answer at first, placing the suitcase on the bed.
“When you get older,” he said, “You start to lose things. Keys. Photos. Memories.” He traced the tip of his visor with a calloused finger, feeling the cold bite of steel. “Eyes.”
“Were you sitting in the dark?” she said, her voice persistent. “Mr. Nick only does that when something’s bad happened.”
“The dark is like a warm mother after a beating from the sun,” he said. He was about to say more, but stopped. She certainly had Mia’s way of taking over the conversation with a few short sentences, all of Mia’s strength in her eyes. He could almost hear his kitten, chiding him for his third cup of coffee, cutting him off at three.
These days, he needed more.
Seeing that she was still staring at him intensively, he dropped to the bed and leaned forward. His eyesight was deteriorating than the doctors had expected. To him, she occasionally shimmered out of focus, and he saw Mia, Maya, Morgan, where Pearl stood, the ghosts of the past haunting him in the day.
“Any more questions for the witness?” he asked.
Pearl stared him straight in the eyes, through his visor, through himself, face serious and withdrawn. “Mr. Godot,” she said, “Are you really my father?”
--
And she had been pretty.
Her hair had been long, straight, and black, and her kimono was decorated with blood-red sakura that blossomed violently, which she had gracefully slid away to reveal the paleness of her skin. And there were secrets between a man and woman, for a violent three days and three nights, until one day he woke up, and she was gone.
He had never gotten her name, but remembered the vacant eyes, hollow with desperation, with a flame that frightened him, and drew him closer.
He was glad his daughter’s eyes were filled with brightness.
Pearl had tasted coffee, once.
Mystic Maya and Mr. Nick had taken her to a cafe, where Mr. Nick had somehow ordered a coffee. She had asked for a sip, if that was all right with Mr. Nick and Mystic Maya, but Mystic Maya vehemently denied her the drink. She produced statistics like a magician pulling scarves from their sleeves, talking about how it would stunt Pearl’s growth and how it was bad for the nerves.
But Pearl was still curious, and when Mystic Maya and Mr. Nick were busy elsewhere, Pearl had taken a small sip from the large, white cup. It was a strange taste that lingered in her mouth for a while, that scorched her tongue and stung her mouth and tasted bitter, unpleasant, but she still wanted more.
That was not the time she tasted coffee.
--
“Come in.” Godot opened the door to his broken apartment, paint flaking off the walls and lint springing from his threadbare couch. The textbooks filled the corners, spilling off bookshelves into neat stacks against the walls. Fumbling for a moment, he found the light switch, and the dim light slowly illuminated the rest of the room.
She was disconcerting, he thought. Her eyes intensely staring forward, her silence emitted a foreboding gloom. She clutched at her pink suitcase defensively, examining every aspect of the room before she put down her suitcase by the television.
“Your room is down there,” he said. “The bathroom is across from your room.” He had cleaned it up, fit for a little girl now, though the window didn’t quite close and the floorboards squeaked. After Mia’s death, he hadn’t found it within him to build up an empire where gravestones lay.
She didn’t say a word.
“Are you hungry?” he finally asked, scratching his chin. “I’ll whip up an omelette. My speciality.”
She shook her head.
He took her suitcase, which felt light and unreal in his hand, and strolled down the hallway to the open room, where the shutters had barely pried open enough to allow slim light to sneak through, revealing a ruffled bed with white sheets.
“Mr. Godot,” she said, her voice small but strong. “Why didn’t you have the lights on?”
He didn’t answer at first, placing the suitcase on the bed.
“When you get older,” he said, “You start to lose things. Keys. Photos. Memories.” He traced the tip of his visor with a calloused finger, feeling the cold bite of steel. “Eyes.”
“Were you sitting in the dark?” she said, her voice persistent. “Mr. Nick only does that when something’s bad happened.”
“The dark is like a warm mother after a beating from the sun,” he said. He was about to say more, but stopped. She certainly had Mia’s way of taking over the conversation with a few short sentences, all of Mia’s strength in her eyes. He could almost hear his kitten, chiding him for his third cup of coffee, cutting him off at three.
These days, he needed more.
Seeing that she was still staring at him intensively, he dropped to the bed and leaned forward. His eyesight was deteriorating than the doctors had expected. To him, she occasionally shimmered out of focus, and he saw Mia, Maya, Morgan, where Pearl stood, the ghosts of the past haunting him in the day.
“Any more questions for the witness?” he asked.
Pearl stared him straight in the eyes, through his visor, through himself, face serious and withdrawn. “Mr. Godot,” she said, “Are you really my father?”
--
And she had been pretty.
Her hair had been long, straight, and black, and her kimono was decorated with blood-red sakura that blossomed violently, which she had gracefully slid away to reveal the paleness of her skin. And there were secrets between a man and woman, for a violent three days and three nights, until one day he woke up, and she was gone.
He had never gotten her name, but remembered the vacant eyes, hollow with desperation, with a flame that frightened him, and drew him closer.
He was glad his daughter’s eyes were filled with brightness.