Face., Faye Young [top 10 best books of all time .txt] 📗

Faces

Everywhere you look; faces. Peoples faces, clock faces, the face of a surface, having to face the truth, knowing a two faced liar, hating that two faced liar, loving one face, hating another. Hating to face facts, because that’s another face. Facing life. Every morning when you climb from your bed, hair a mop, knots and frizz, eye bags drooping so far it looks like a plastic surgeons gone wrong - you look at the clock face on your bedside cabinet, and in less than a second you realise your late; up an hour early
forgot the clocks went back, misplaced the clock and need to know the time, time for a shit-shower-shave, time for bed, time to get a watch, time to go.

Millions of people rely on this clock face to tell them the time, yet no on hates it for being the object to count every second closer to death. Because that’s it- we have to face that fact of life. That clock face tells us how much longer till the end of class, or how much longer until we can get home to our wife and two kids. It reassures us and steadily increases keeping at a constant speed, it’s a stabiliser holding us up. People on the other hand, those faces, the billions and billions of us out there, we, were not stable.

From the moment I was born, this became the obsession:
Touch it, feel it, analyse, document it.
Touch it, feel it, analyse, document it.

I would sit for hours examining the bark of a tree or the hairs on my dads legs. Always critical. It wasn’t that big of a deal for me, I saw things in detail, that’s how I was. As I grew older however, my legs growing hairs themselves and stubble slowly forming on my face. I was no longer too young for my obsession to be pushed aside,

'It’s a cute little trait of his - doc says he’ll grow out of it,’

I was a young man and was expected to settle down.

Already a problem. What I saw no one else could see, I saw partials no one else could see

. My eyes flashed before beautiful girls, blonds, brunets, chestnut, burgundy. Girls with soft subtle features, delicate and fragile. Girls I could rap my arms around and take care of, settle down with, love. I didn’t see them for that. To me their skin was dry and flaked, heavy bags, pimples everywhere, their clothes dirty, lips cracked. I couldn’t possible settle down. As I lied their on the veranda in my back garden, a gentle breeze causing dust partials to flow into the air above my head and swirl and dance in front of my eyes before falling to the ground where they would soon enough we swept up again, a voice sounded. I had never had good hearing, my sight had almost deafened me, but what I lacked in my other four senses I soon made up for in my fifth. This voice however flowed through the air effortlessly, a gorgeous soft noise, a noise which made me close my eyes. I lied their for more than ten minuets without my eyes open, something which rarely happened to me; a young man, no older than nineteen, hansom smart, and very precise. After a little while longer my feet began to move. I stood, yet my eyes remained shut. I felt at ease, relieved almost, I no longer had to face the constant detail, the confusion of what I had to decipher. I new my way around my neighbourhood, maybe a little to well, but still to this day I believe I followed the voice not my instinct. It steadily grew louder, more pronounced, it bellowed in my ears, ringing of a magical sort. Church bells and choirs couldn’t sound as impressive as this voice… The voice. No face. No meaning. Delicate, soft, oh thanks to the lord for the beautiful voice. My eyes remained shut, my other sense’s creeping back to life. I could feel the breeze blowing my mahogany hair around, I would feel the leaves brushing against my feet and legs and the gentle heat against my face, which was tilted upwards. The smell of freshly cooked fish seeped up my nostril making me go light headed, I hadn’t eaten meat in a long time - the sight was unpleasant. Now, however, my mouth drooled at the thought of the fish. And then the voice stopped.

No more light in the dark. It angered me, no, infuriated

me. I protested against my eyes - why should they open, ruin this beauty for me. Yet it happened. The light spilled in like it did every morning causing me pain and misery. I could never see anything for a few moments - they had to adjust. Eventually they found their way, as usual, and in front of me was a woman. The most elderly woman id ever seen. She stood their, slightly worried and slightly shaken. She was short and crooked, whitewashing in her hands and some on the line, she went to speak, but stopped and blinked slowly. Could she see what I could see?

Could she see the despair in the world, the brutal ugliness of this planet? She stood their still blinking slowly, her mouth slightly upturned, the brilliant blue of her eyes glinting in the sun.

“Your name?” I attempted, smiling as much as possible at the old woman in front of me, “I’ve never seen you around here?” Yet she stood their, still, her face rancid as ever, yet the brilliant youthful eyes glinting back at mine.

“You know something different,” she sated, her voice barely a whisper. She shifted her weight on her staff and pushed the whitewashing further up her arm. “You will have the gift.” She spoke a little louder, yet barley audible. I had a urge to laugh, a slight smile crossed my lips, and I quickly down turned it once more. “I miss nothing young man.” So she did, she had the curse, the touch it, feel it, analyse, document it.

“it’s a curse,” I spat, “freakish and witch like.” I aimed at her more than I would have liked to. Yet she took it well, and shifted her weight once more,

“A curse you say?” She asked in her low voice, “A curse is a bad thing you know.” She whispered again. I looked around, so much time wasted on an old hag who didn’t know what she was going on about. Yet she did, she knew lots, and many times I returned to her garden. Through the picket fence up to her washing line to lay in he sun and listen to the voice. She said it was bad for me to use her voice as an escape - but still I did it. A few days after my twenty first birthday she brought up a topic I struggled to keep up with. Faces. I told her I saw like she saw, and that’s why I could never settle down, I found it hard to cope with the detail of their faces, I didn’t want to see the beautiful girls in the ugly way my mind saw them. Yet she shut her eyes and laughed at my childish remark, “Ugly faces.” She laughed again. “What of my voice?” She questioned, “Do you like the sound?” I looked at her, confused at why she asked, I had told her of how it sounded, and what it did for me. She laughed again, “I thought so. But what if your eyes saw things like that. Things like my voice.” I shook my head confused again,

“They do.” I told her, “I can see the air, waves of air come from you mouth and traveling towards me.’ She shook her wise head once more.

“You think to literally. Think outside the box. Think of the beauty in the world.” At this I cracked, my playful smile retreated, a scowl appeared on my brow and the fist of fury tunnelled into my throat.

“The beauty in the world?” I bellowed. “There is no beauty, the food rots, people die, and time ticks on.” I ended whilst walking from the garden. As I looked behind me I could just see two glittering blue eyes piercing back at me with hope. That night I sat in pitch black, the nearest my eyes could get to a break and I documented everything I had done that day. I saw myself getting up and eating a slice of bread, walking into town and avoiding Daisy the flower girl, I remember running back to her garden and hopping the fence, lying on her veranda, eyes shut, letting go. I analysed it. Why had I gone to town - I lost out on precious time, living time. Why had I closed my eyes? Because I wanted to. There and then I decided to go, first thing in the morning, to the garden to see the blue eyed woman and ask her to explain everything.

I hopped over the picket fence, and over to the washing line. Yet no washing hung from the line, no water droplets fell to the floor causing small puddles to slowly seep into the concrete or dry in the sun. The place was empty, I looked up a her house - it was old and ragged, it looked like it had been empty for a long time, I couldn’t understand. Had I made her go away, remove herself from this god forsaken world. And then it came to me, I had learned the message she was passing onto me, I smiled properly for the first time, in a long time. Faces - everywhere. Peoples faces, clock faces, having to face the truth. That’s what it was for me. Facing the truth. I had to get over my obsession I had never grown out of. No more touch it, feel it, analyse, and document it, no more in depth looking, no more would I be shallow and harsh. But most of all, no more would I not face the truth - the truth of life, the count down to death. Because that’s what it was for me, a constant countdown. I didn’t see anything more than others. I wasn’t special, gifted or cursed. I was average, and she knew that, she knew that becuase her youth had gone- ’you know something different,’ wasn’t her way of knowing my forged gift - but her way of spotting the pessimistic young fool I was.

Every morning I would climb from my bed, hair a mop and frizzy, look at the face of my clock and realise I was late, up an hour early, misplaced my clock, time for a shit shower shave. Every morning I was unstable, I was counting down till my death, completely unstable. One of the billions and billions of us out their. A true, unstable face. Just a face. A face. Face.