I posted a bit of Wilby Lake a while back, and then suddenly something about the Hunger Games, and now this, to make a sincere confession, I'm rather disorganized when it comes to my imagination; an idea would occur, and the next day I would have no inspiration for that idea, but an inspiration for another idea. So I end up with more ideas than stories...well, I guess I'll be juggling a few stories all at once.
Anyways, beside the point. Onwards with the story!
The eyes of Dennis Raveley are a dark grayish color, they display an air of coolness; of forbidding; of calculating venom few humans in the world possess, it is a gift from nature, or perhaps a gift of the devil. Either way, those dark grayish eyes have emerged him the victor in numerous staring contests, against the bully of a new neighborhood, teachers, principals, cranky elderly citizens, police officers, and just about many more who crossed paths with him. This winning streak trained him not to look away when eyes lock; he may have never achieved such results intentionally, but he learned to use it to his advantage, he knows, the eyes speak the first word, if he looks long enough.
Behind those dark grayish eyes is a version of himself few are familiar with. He has yet to find himself reflected fully in those dark grayish eyes, like a swordsman who has yet to master his weapon. Somewhere in himself protected by those dark grayish eyes is a bemused youth who possess less seriousness than one would perceive upon sight; a lack of complete certainty and control; a sense for humor where least appropriate. He is in no hurry to adapt to the version of himself put forth by his looks, however, he may be ushered to confront his outside self much sooner than he envisioned.
Dennis can see himself reflected in the rear mirror of the slick black car gliding silently on the country road, the outside scenery nothing but a blur of heavy blue, indigo and pitch darkness with an occasional burst of yellow, distorted by the misty downpour smearing diagonally down the windows, drumming the windshield in a low hum. The driver, hunched over, wearing a dirt coloured trench coat steers the four-wheel drive without dialogue, as silent as the surrounding countryside in the wee hours of morning. Dennis does not want to make conversation, he is depraved of sleep and has been so since several hours prior, when he was woken up and put into this car, but there is much to ask and no one except the driver to propose these questions. So far, the inquisitions proved fruitless; the driver is either deaf or is trained so well to ignore his passengers, and only hit men of the mob receive such training.
'For the thirteenth time, where are we going?' Dennis asks, regarding his reflection in the rear view mirror, directing his dark grayish eyes at the driver, who does not meet his stare. He admires such people who ignores or answers at will, or on orders? They are disciplined, organic machinery. Dennis does not wish to be in the shoes of one such men, but he finds their composure impressive nevertheless.
'We are passing the third county, are you taking me to my father?' Only his father would arrange for a reunion as arcane as this, and Dennis has never gotten to figure out why, or cared enough to investigate deeply into the matter. He is content in his own thoughts, and now he is being depraved of them as his mind is occupied by the situation unravelling before him.
The car stops, and the driver exits the car as swiftly as the wind, he opens the back door at Dennis' side. Dennis only gazes for a moment, shrugs, and exits the car. As soon as Dennis is standing, the driver takes out a band of cloth from somewhere within his coat, and as suddenly, Dennis' vision is overlapped by darkness. The rain is pouring lightly, and the night is without disturbance, something tells Dennis that they are soon to arrive at their destination. With his sight now gone, the driver arranges Dennis carefully back into the backseat, gets in, and the car is off once again.
Dennis finds it very surprising that sleep comes to him sooner with a blindfold across his vision, listening to the light hum of the rain against metal and glass, and all this while he does not say a word. He dozes off soon enough.
When he wakes, he finds a hand on his shoulder, the hand of the driver, without doubt. He is led off the car, onto a ground of pebbles, and marches into the loom of a ceiling with the guidance of the hand. The floor is carpet, the light is dim but none reaches beneath his blindfold. Dennis marches with the driver, turning several bends, up several cases of stair, and through several doors. At his best guess, he would say that he is in the third level of the building, in the east wing of what feels to be an old, grand mansion.
Through one last door, and he is pressed into a cold, smooth leather seat, situated with back turned towards the entrance, in a study.
The driver leaves, and shuts the door quietly behind his departure.
'Have I arrived?' Dennis declares, he imagines what it would feel like to sit at this seat in fear, and not dry amusement; what he is feeling.
'Of course you've arrived. I'd tell you to take off that blindfold, but that would ruin many surprises. I hope you do like surprises.' The voice in reply is deep, masculine, yet not quite natural, as if spoken by an actor.
'Not much opinion on that.'
'Not much? Your journey here was pleasant? If I may assume.' The question is interrogative.
'It wasn't eventful.' A beat. 'Was the driver a deaf?'
'No, he isn't.'
'He didn't speak a word to me.'
'I believe you'd like to know why.'
'Exactly.'
'People such as that driver, they are paid to drive, not to speak.'
'Oh, I see...or rather, I hear.' Dennis gives sound a small hoot within himself, it appears his father is finally unveiling the curtain.
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