The Boy at the Door

 

 

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Kris yawned and rubbed the back of his hand tiredly across his eyes. Peering blearily at the oven clock, he could just barely make out the time: the glowing green digits informed him that it was 1:00 AM; in other words, not a time the average human should still be expected to be awake at. In other words, time to sleep until noon of the next day. Working on this novel was really taking the energy out of him. Perhaps he could take it easy for a while...

 

The light jingling of the window shades shook him from his meandering thoughts, and he sighed and started shuffling towards the end of the hallway, where his bedroom resided. Just as he moved to take a step out of the kitchen, a purring sound vibrated faintly around the room, and Chen rubbed up against his legs, meowing and flicking his tail. Kris bent down and Chen's back absentmindedly, already forgetting his aim to go to bed. Standing up suddenly, accompanied by an irritated growl from Chen, Kris turned around and started heading for the back garden instead, driven by a sudden urge to look at the moon. To his mind, which was living between dreams and reality, as writers’ minds often are, this was not such a strange occurrence. After all, where do you expect writers to get their ideas from?

 

Kris, in the meantime, had made it to the door and stopped, gazing out into the light flecked sky. He reached out and gently slid open the door, stepping out into the garden. The garden was a delight. Beyond his writing, it was perhaps the only thing Kris really put time into, and it showed. The wide expanse of green was blooming with blossoms of shaded purple and bright red and vibrant blue. A small river trickled melodically down the center of the garden, and little fish flicked their tails and darted to and fro. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted mournfully. Kris shivered; he was wearing many layers, but somehow still felt cold.

 

A ripple of movement caught his eye, and Kris spun around and glimpsed a fair young boy, standing tall and erect in the translucent moonlight. He seemed more spirit than substance, and as he gazed at the flowers Kris could see his finely-sculpted lips and delicate eyebrows. He was clothed in a fine black suit, black dress shoes, and seemed so dignified that Kris thought he might be of noble birth. Perhaps the young boy sensed his presence, for in one fluid moment, he turned and looked straight at Kris, who could not hold back a gasp.

 

The boy was quite beautiful, but it was his eyes; his grey eyes that saw straight into Kris as if he was made of glass, saw straight into him and delved into his soul, his essence, the very being of him. Almost as if the stare was a physical force, Kris staggered, feeling utterly vulnerable. It scared him, being read so easily, like an open book.

 

Not knowing where he was going, not knowing what to do, just needing to get away from that terrible, terrible gaze, Kris rushed past him into the garden and ran as fast he could, panicked and terrified, til he was moving as swiftly as the wind; a mere gust within its mighty downdraft. The stars blurred into bolts upon bolts of pale gold silk, gleaming against his alabaster skin. Kris felt calmer, more collected, but still he could not forget those eyes, and then in the torrents of wind there formed images.

 

He saw a young boy crying as a small hut burned to ashes, and then a temple where many mists swirled. A teen in ragged black armor, scarred and fierce, with branded marks upon his arms and bloody cuts upon his face. Monsters scream and shriek, but all fall before his sickled sword. The teen again; but not so much a teen as a young man, and he is kneeling beside the body of a woman who has been ripped from head to toe and lies silent and still. Tears trickle down his skin, and he buries her under the full moon and swears a vow of revenge. And then he is dying, too, dying of the same monster that killed his beloved, and he is gone into the eternal void, the void from which none return. And then the images shift into one, and it is the stunning boy in ballroom clothes.

 

Warrior to lover to prince.

 

Kris couldn’t piece it all together; it seemed a giant puzzle. Was it the same person the whole time? Perhaps a past self or a compilation of many lifetimes?

 

His thoughts whirled together as the wind stilled, and he found himself in the midst of the emerald grass, and the boy stood stark still before him, silhouetted against the rays of the dying sun. He felt such an attraction, he felt so drawn, somehow, to this slim, mysterious figure.

 

He couldn’t stop himself, and he approached him, this warrior prince, this shattered piece of intrigue. Catching a whiff of him, Kris became certain that he smelled of fresh lilacs and honey and vanilla with something wonderfully mysterious sifted in.

 

However, when he reached out a forefinger to touch him, he faded away as the dust does into the evanescent silver mist of the early morning, so that the young writer was reaching out to touch nothing in the pure, pristine air, as he stood alone in the silent jade green valley.

 

 

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This is based on a short descriptive piece I did in 6th grade, which I found and decided to make story out of. The mystery visitor was originally a girl, so it was interesting to see how kpop has changed my views and how I look at things.

To clarify, the boy is Tao.