He stared at the boy.
The boy was sad, or thats the story that his eyes told under the thick veil of his rusty yellow hair.
Those eyes.
Those vibrant green eyes. Bright like two pools of shining water.
He didn't like them.
They were too penetrating, like those statues of Jesus in the cathedral across town: cracked surface of ivory skin and bone.
Sutures ran across the boys face like a scarred land, deep and prominent. This was the diagram of a battered face.
This boy was ugly.
This boy the world did not love.
And he hated this boy.
Before he could stop himself, his fist flew out at the boy. A deafening crack erupted as his fist made contact with the boys left cheek. He looked down at his hand to find tiny shards of glass frozen in the crevices of his knuckles, standing straight up like tombstones on the graveyard of his body.
This vignette is written by my friend Ina. I believe its a great piece, so i posted it up here.
