In my lifetime, I was a creature who posed as a man. Human ideals such as love, happiness, hope, sorrow, fear -- I understood such concepts as an artist but struggled to understand them as my fellows did. I felt too strongly and made a fool of myself many, many times because of this. I could not understand the people I lived among, though I could play the parts they bestowed upon me. From the moment I picked up the pen, I became enamored with the idea of monsters. With those who fail to be a part of society.
In short: a demon such as yourself only tantalized my incomplete author's heart. I wanted to spend time to observe and understand you because... I suppose I saw a bit of myself in you. Half-monster. Half-man. Something straddling the boundaries, without a true place to belong, like the little mermaid. I wanted to know your truth, and I can only tell you what I've seen.
[he looks at Andersen, and faintly (an echo in another room) there are varied emotions rifled through like discarded clothing, a great disturbance and then the settling down of it all. pulled back, controlled - restrained into something manageable and enclosed in his fist.
authors are not creatures he can trust easily. he knows them, though, and again and again he's drawn to them. returning to the scene of a crime, circling it and pressing back down on bone deep bruises as if hoping for another conclusion. but Andersen is not that man, not the one to cut him to pieces - someone who heard his rage and let him speak instead of recording his words.
half man, half monster? how literal this is with this form, but how it speaks to his true self as well. how he is the shell of something like a man, and inside the marked one, righteous and damned at the same time. society, something he holds at arm's length but yet watches so closely. he lives in the shadows of the boundary, for there anything can happen, and there despair cries out for one thread of hope.
he's staring, Dantes realizes too late. staring as if Andersen's eyes will fill with a cruel mirth and there be some lie to it, some trick that he misses. but it doesn't come, and he feels disarmed, caught unawares. folding his hands, he lets the silence stretch on until he can bear it no longer.]
And what will you do, when you find that truth?
[when what remains of Edmond Dantes after he was rendered into pieces to make one man rich at his expense again? a character who is all too aware of his unreality, of the shouldn't that clings to his existence? can he still trust in something that is less than whole?]
[It is impossible to miss the upheaval in their Bond, the aftershocks that shiver past. Too many emotions for it to be anything but the truth, and the rapidity with which Dantes yanks it all away only underscores how moved he'd been by his words. It brings him some pleasure to know this. Authors, after all, are peddlers of words. To move others by his speech alone is what he seeks, for nothing else about him is appetizing.
(He can't understand what Dantes is looking from him, for him to gaze into his eyes for so long.)
But that question -- it surprises Andersen. It's apparent by the way his brow raises, how he looks almost puzzled by the response. He cants his head, rubs the back of his neck.]
What is there to do? I only sell myself, Dantes. My interest in you... it's solely out of twisted sentimentality.
If you don't want to do anything with it, why do you look for it?
[he's still waiting, ready for it all to leave. for this all to reveal something else that he knew far too well - for something to be taken from him, or the promise that something will be.
sentiment only went so far. it couldn't be all. he'd learned that.]
[it doesn't make sense to him. it doesn't ring true, even if it is and he can read that in Andersen's face. he can only doubt in this moment, because it's never that simple. his truth is buried and locked in a place as inescapable as the Chateau - it's one of the very few things he has left.
he cannot risk it so freely. not when even what he throws away gets used against him. even with Andersen, he cannot let himself go so quickly, without rhyme or reason. not even for a collection of words that scatter his emotions and make him need to clamp down on everything before it's so blatantly shown.
but he'll let Andersen have the last word, lest his impulses rise and he call him a liar for no good reason other than his deep seated cynicism. he exhales, and breaks eye contact, glancing to the side and sinking a little more into his chair.]
[There are truths too difficult to swallow, Andersen knows this well. Kindness is foreign to creatures such as them -- its softness is what gives it a poisonous quality, what makes their hearts ache. It's far easier to be hardened against it all. Far safer.
So Andersen doesn't fault Dantes for retreating. He allows his words to be the final push on the matter and instead watches him, the way an artist would regard their model. At length, he says:]
[reaching into his pocket, he withdraws his case and light, pulling out two cigarettes and getting up to offer one to Andersen. they can light them together, and the familiar taste of the tobacco smooths over his senses, his concerns. this he knows and can do easily.]
[That is enough to quiet his tongue. Andersen doesn't smoke often -- his vice lies in drink, after all, and self-flagellation -- and he thinks it's because he needs good company to enjoy a cigarette. Tobacco reminds him of parlor rooms, of excitement coursing between words, and when he smokes alone, it feels like a hollow gesture to comfort himself with.
Dantes may not feel up to conversation, but his presence is enough. Andersen exhales and feels content for the first time in a long while.]
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no subject
In short: a demon such as yourself only tantalized my incomplete author's heart. I wanted to spend time to observe and understand you because... I suppose I saw a bit of myself in you. Half-monster. Half-man. Something straddling the boundaries, without a true place to belong, like the little mermaid. I wanted to know your truth, and I can only tell you what I've seen.
I trust you more than anyone else in this world.
no subject
authors are not creatures he can trust easily. he knows them, though, and again and again he's drawn to them. returning to the scene of a crime, circling it and pressing back down on bone deep bruises as if hoping for another conclusion. but Andersen is not that man, not the one to cut him to pieces - someone who heard his rage and let him speak instead of recording his words.
half man, half monster? how literal this is with this form, but how it speaks to his true self as well. how he is the shell of something like a man, and inside the marked one, righteous and damned at the same time. society, something he holds at arm's length but yet watches so closely. he lives in the shadows of the boundary, for there anything can happen, and there despair cries out for one thread of hope.
he's staring, Dantes realizes too late. staring as if Andersen's eyes will fill with a cruel mirth and there be some lie to it, some trick that he misses. but it doesn't come, and he feels disarmed, caught unawares. folding his hands, he lets the silence stretch on until he can bear it no longer.]
And what will you do, when you find that truth?
[when what remains of Edmond Dantes after he was rendered into pieces to make one man rich at his expense again? a character who is all too aware of his unreality, of the shouldn't that clings to his existence? can he still trust in something that is less than whole?]
no subject
(He can't understand what Dantes is looking from him, for him to gaze into his eyes for so long.)
But that question -- it surprises Andersen. It's apparent by the way his brow raises, how he looks almost puzzled by the response. He cants his head, rubs the back of his neck.]
What is there to do? I only sell myself, Dantes. My interest in you... it's solely out of twisted sentimentality.
no subject
[he's still waiting, ready for it all to leave. for this all to reveal something else that he knew far too well - for something to be taken from him, or the promise that something will be.
sentiment only went so far. it couldn't be all. he'd learned that.]
no subject
Isn't it clear? I simply want it for myself.
no subject
he cannot risk it so freely. not when even what he throws away gets used against him. even with Andersen, he cannot let himself go so quickly, without rhyme or reason. not even for a collection of words that scatter his emotions and make him need to clamp down on everything before it's so blatantly shown.
but he'll let Andersen have the last word, lest his impulses rise and he call him a liar for no good reason other than his deep seated cynicism. he exhales, and breaks eye contact, glancing to the side and sinking a little more into his chair.]
no subject
So Andersen doesn't fault Dantes for retreating. He allows his words to be the final push on the matter and instead watches him, the way an artist would regard their model. At length, he says:]
Do you have a cigarette?
no subject
[reaching into his pocket, he withdraws his case and light, pulling out two cigarettes and getting up to offer one to Andersen. they can light them together, and the familiar taste of the tobacco smooths over his senses, his concerns. this he knows and can do easily.]
no subject
Dantes may not feel up to conversation, but his presence is enough. Andersen exhales and feels content for the first time in a long while.]