note: this is written in arthurâs POV.
I donât know if thereâs a proper, exact definition of an âpretty smileâ, but thereâs one thing I do knowâ she has exactly that. A pretty smile. She has pretty lips, too, for that matter, but one things leads to another and Iâll be getting nowhere with this.
It first happened when she appeared in the dining hall. I did hear the sound of some conversation and a voice that belonged to a womanâs, but the possibility of someone new joining us overtook my mind. Initially, I thought she was probably a famous actress back in the days that got revived by the Count, much like the rest of us residents, but those lost, confused eyes that met mine with some apprehension suggested otherwise. Her features were soft, and if not for the taut like that was her mouth, she wouldâve looked beautiful.
All women are beautiful, after all, and itâs a policy of mine that I strictly adhere to. I would bump into her now and then, but for a period of time, she always had that on her face. That line.
I almost felt foolish for expecting her to be smiling. She was transported by accident to this unfamiliar world, with strangers all around her, no one she could trust even with an inch of her soul. No human could be smiling in these circumstances, really. And it wasnât my business, either, but part of me yearned to help her in some way.
It wasnât difficult in the least to strike up a conversation with her. She was kind, of course, though slightly surprised that I wanted converse with her. The proposal I presented was that I would take her around the town, for some eye-openers, and she agreed after little thought. Staying in the mansion and being cooped up was hardly entertaining, and the thrill of seeing the streets of a different century would cheer her up a little, or so I hoped it would.
The nineteenth century had its own charms. Pastel green lined houses, cobblestone roads and and rhythmic thumping of hoofs against it, as well as the buskers in the dayâ it was full of life. And then there was it. The quiver of the end of her lips, before it stretched into a wide grin. Her eyes sparkled with all the brightness of a million stars in the universe, and for a moment, she was so blinding that I was sure I squinted.
I knew she was beautiful. But in that moment, when time seemed to slow itself from its constant run to a walk, she was absolutely stunning.
If I thought that she wasnât one to smile often, I was wrong. She smiled at the simplest thing, and every single time, clock hands stopped to watch the masterpiece that was her smile. To put it simply, I loved it. Love is a strong word, just like hate is, for it represents how tightly bounded your heart is to something, but there is no better word for this.
I loved that. The curve her lips made.
She was the strongest creature Iâve ever met.
Her heart was like a bottomless pit, enduring things after things circumstances threw at her. Firstly, the sudden arrival in a different world altogether. I find her admirable for holding herself together so well in this situation, and when she gradually accepted that a bunch of blood-thirsty men were living in the same mansion with her. Normal people wouldâve ran off, never to come back nor to be seen again, but in some strange ways, I suppose she wasnât quite normal, much like Sebastian.
I believe that I have seen many things and types of people that it barely fazes me. Dazai and I ever so often enjoy to say that weâve accomplished the great deed of peering into the dark abyss that was a humanâs heart, but in order to adventure our way through it, we had to fall into it too. I had almost forgot what light looked like down there, at least until she came.
Imagine my utter surprise when she stands before me, shoulders broad, her form confident and resolute, declaring that she wouldnât run away from us! In no time at all, she was helping out around the mansion, her nose buried in chores, and yet the smile I adore so much never leaves her face.
Perhaps it was because of the seemingly endless night that the sun looked so beautiful in my eyes.
Yes, she had times where she was scared out of her wits, but whenever she fell, she would always stand up again, ready to face the challenge. She would do it tens of thousands of times, never once collapsing from despair, even if it wasnât for herself. She fought just as hard, if not harder, for the benefit of others, and it is as if an angel had descended into the gloomy depths herself to save me. To save us all.
Her usual, normal quirks were amusing and adorable too. Sometimes, I would catch her scanning through the drafts of my works, sitting on the unmade bed, a childlike smile upon her lips. This fond, happy expression would immediately morph into one of shock and embarrassment when she sees me, setting down the papers and stumbling past me, all while apologising in rapid-fire speech.
You can see it, how pure and lovely she is, always presenting nothing but the best to others, while keeping the painful shards to herself. You can see how she bears cuts on her soul, yet refusing to let anyone tend to it, shrugging it off with a nonchalant grin like itâs weighs nothing on her. I know too well that it weighs too much, and yet she still greets everyone with that smile of hers. Reassuring. Pretty. Positive. And a lie.
I had the privilege to be with her when it was too heavy for her to carry, and I have now taken up the responsibility to do this with her. If I was the demon, she was an angel. She saved me, and I would fight the monsters tormenting her. It all sounds complicated, but really, itâs simple.
Many people say that Iâm in love. I donât deny that, because it is true, and now you can see why. Should I take up a role of a romantic poet, I would say that she was like a stalk of rose, the most beautiful star in the universe, or something grand, but thereâs a reason why Iâm not a poet. Instead, I would say that her beauty was so indescribable and intangible that it was rather like that one moment in a libraryâ when sunlight flows through the windows, giving that desk right there a golden glow, and the uneven curve of a closed book is unusually clear to the eye. Youâll find yourself observing the little dust motes that seem to shine and flutter at every little breath, and before you know it, itâs all gone.
That, I think, best describes her.
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