#;self-paragraphs

“It is all you ever do to sit inside,” she grieved, her delicate hands upon his sleeve and her hair falling out of the bun her mother had so painstakingly ordered, high at the back of her elegant neck. “Please, won't you come join us to-day, Francesco, we would be so pleased to have you there!”

“I need to finish this, Ann,” he murmured as the point of his quill scratched the neat words of a sentence upon paper, though he did then at least, place the pen aside so that he could raise his eyes to hers. Pale blue, as the morning sky they were, and bright despite the pleading frown upon her supple features. She was a young beauty, that was for certain. And kneeling by his desk as the sun shone bright outside, any man would have surely been mad to resist her invitation for leisure and fun.

”This is why you are pale,” she scorned, oh youthful practise. “Papa must understand you simply cannot finish his letter to-day—it shall be sent to-morrow.” She nodded; the sure nod of a noble woman, sure in getting what she wanted. Except he did not, give her what she wanted. It perplexed her. Intrigued her. He could see it in her eyes, the way she looked upon him, and paid attention. Perhaps it were that her confidence had taken a turn that he did not fall for her the way most boys did. Perhaps it were the want of something she could not have, or the conquest of a person whose resistance made her feel inferior to her lady friends, when she ought to feel nothing of the sort. He was not certain what might have caused it, but he did know that when he let his eyes linger, the heart within her chest quickened. Little rabbit, run.

“I will come join you in the eve,” he said, in spite of the disappointment which played far too clearly over her features. “Is not Sir Patrick with you? You must not keep him waiting.” What a pity, what a shame. The young lad had an eye for Ann, yet Francesco could see the way she were blind to his courtship. Blind, or simply unwilling to see it. With these wilful young ladies of the day, you never quite knew.

“But Patrick—oh Patrick is a boredom personified, you cannot phantom—“

“Do you even listen as he speaks, young lady?” he returned, a certain amusement in his voice as he looked away from her, picked up his pen again to dip it delicately into the pot of ink. “He is most intelligent, and I think should you give him a fighting chance, you might have more in common than you might imagine.” And he had the money which her family needed for her to marry. She was at the ripe age, and already had two men asked for her hand in marriage. Both had been seen of too low birth to suit her needs, but Patrick. If she could only see him, he mused inwardly. Of course, he did not care for the other man's happiness. But if Ann's family allowed her to marry too low, they were in economical danger. And that, meant his place of work and lodging was endangered, as well. He did not care to return to Bath just yet.

“I do too listen,” she claimed.

“Do you?” he queried, laughter in his voice. “Why, to me it looked as though you were inside on a perfectly sunny day, speaking to the painter and as it would seem—“, he made a gesture to the letter before him, “—impromptu scribe. Do forgive my misjudgement, miss.”

“You tease me,” she sighed dramatically, rising from her place, and her hands detaching themselves from his arm, to dust off the front of one of her best dresses.

“Yes,” he admitted, with a smile dancing at his lips. “I do. But only because I know of which I am speaking of, and your happiness is of uttermost importance to my own. I do so love your company, dear Ann, but won't you join everybody else? I am certain they miss you sorely,” he told her smoothly, his gaze returning to the documents before him, as he dipped his pen again in the pot of ink; subtle indications that he wished the conversation to end there.

“Very well,” her voice said behind him, and although there was a second of hesitation, soon he could hear her steps leading her to the doorway of the study he spent many of his hours within. She paused. “I do still think fresh air might do you good, though,” she added.

☥     “Does it ever stop?” he whispered, breathless. Pale fingers curled around the window frame, nails breaking into splinters as they breached and dug into ancient wood. Somewhere, in the depth of his hollow mind, perhaps he registered the pain. But if he did, he reacted naught. “Does it ever stop...” he queried, hopeless. And although breaths were not needed, he took them, and heavy they tore from his lips as he leaned out the window, staring into the starry night. Eyes distant. Vacant and lost, as within his chest, his unbeating heart twisted, attempted to drive agony into every molecule of his cursed being.

       “Does it ever...” he breathed, leaning out further until the night wind was chill against deathly pale cheek, with skin so flawless and cold it may as well have been carved out of marble. “... Stop?” he choked, as eyes grey as morning fog closed; black, short eyelashes touching skin. He could have let go. He could have released the pained hold of the window's frames, and he felt how if he did nothing, he could have so easily let gravitation take him over to the other side. It would be a breathless fall. One of precious seconds, filled with yearning wishes, ancient prayers, hollow whispers.

☥    Ritch. The sheet of paper was torn from its spine of spiral, to be discarded and float to the floor, forgotten as the leaves of coffee brown amongst the remains of vibrant autumn. Ritch. Upon the floor, a litter of unwanted paper, stained by ink and words of emotion. Upon the desk, neatly arranged sets devised for writing. A notebook of typical description; pale blue front, white pages with lines upon lines upon lines. And then there is him. His hands, pale as petals of white lily—an ironic symbolism, for there was nothing innocent and pure of his passing, so long ago.

Smudges of dark blue ink speck his skin, seek into the crevice of nail meeting soft skin. The thin fingers of a pianist grasping onto the delicate wooden shaft of his pen. And the nib, oh the nib another ironical game, as silver was dipped into ink, and silver dragged across paper, creating fragile words with what could wound him. Had wounded him. The precious metal had burned and pressed against his skin, as a snarl of frustration had left the back of his throat, escaped past lips rosy pale and full—holding hollow beauty even as a frown lay etched between his brows, and his eyes appeared as though bottomless lakes of black.

Ritch. Another paper, discarded. He did not even care to crumple it up any longer, but let it float to the floor, gently swaying down until it slid to a stop amongst the rest of wasted emotions. So many things left unsaid, and not because they did not scream for a voice, but because they could not carry themselves beyond the cage of his dead heart. They were trapped, surrounded by barbed wire, and not even squeezed into narrow sentences on a paper could he arrange them, and let himself breathe.

“Blast it all,” he muttered as a dot of blue ink grew slowly over the sheet of paper, the pen nib resting without a movement against it. Until a quelled fit of frustrated anger had an inhuman hiss passing clenched teeth, and the pen nib buried into the back of his hand, springing forth blossoms of maroon—the hiss of the metal burning his skin matching that of his lips before his own was wrought into a breathless cry, and he yanked the pen back. Reflecting sources of light, the beads of blood trickled over the back of his hand, and dropped onto the dark sheets with the faintest of sounds, in the suffocating silence which followed.

The trees were as if on fire; their golden orange shrouds rustling in the wind. In his mind he imagined their sound along with autumn birds, as the sun breathed life. He wished he could be there. Out there. The beauty seemed to beckon him, call on him, ask him to venture outside.

There was something about beauty. Something of its glorious splendour that so easily had him on his knees, at its beck and call. He had always held a fascination for objects and people attractive for the eye to behold, and cursed decades; long centuries, they were hardly improving the matters. It enchanted him, to the point of becoming a weakness, a fatal flaw which so could ensnare him. To-day he stood, and he beheld, how sun made gold out of yellow. The piano which his fingers had danced over was forgotten, as he moved silently through the rooms of the grand house, passing one window after another, and always seeking out the sight of trees on fire.

He ought to have known better---anyone in possession of half a wit would know as much, but his mind was blinded. It did not wish to see, the danger that could be. So the pale young man opened doors, and stepped outside. A longing in his bones, a secret wish in unbeating heart. His skin was tender in the shade as step by step he was brought closer to the edge of sane reasoning.

"Hnh..." was the faint sound which left him, as his brows furrowed and his so usually graceful posture became hunched. The sun. The glorious sun, the Queen in the sky, condemning him as her rays of light touched his skin. It hurt. It burned. It made him hiss and touch the hurting skin of his arms with hands, in feeble attempts to cover himself. All while step after step, he walked on. Step after step, he kept going, eyes fixated upon autumn trees. It was a beautiful day, a wondrous day---the kind of day of autumn where warmth makes a final visit to kiss upon land and shrub. But her kisses were naught but burning coal to his skin, and the longer he went on, the more he twisted, fingers burying into black locks of hair, a cry of agony passing his lips as he begged and pleaded, please. Just let him see. With his own eyes, let him be, once more.

"Young Master!" a voice called out from the house, and upon dainty feet a young maid ran, another in her tow. "What is the matter? Come inside, please," she pleaded as she came close, but her hand touching his arm was snapped away without thought.

But while thoughts had not been with him, and while his mind had been elsewhere at the initial touch, it did startle his mind. It made him blink his yearning eyes and become aware of the rush of distressed sounds, voices, seeming so overwhelming to him as he staggered in his steps. As skin singed upon arm, cheek and nose, he moaned in pain, and with a jerk he turned, a staggering run desperately taking him closer to the house in which he lived the day's light hours a prisoner.

"Leave me be!" he bellowed as he stumbled through the door, ignoring voices, caring and startled faces, to push himself past them. He would heal. He knew he would, but that was not that which hurt the most, as he slammed the door to his bedchamber shut, and sunk down onto the floor, clutching at his own skin, sore to the touch.