Jinn

I had a dream that we were dead,
and we pretended that we still lived

He had given little thought to the plague since he had learned of its existence. He cannot find disease frightening, not the way so many seem to. Death has already staked its claim upon his body, refusing to loosen its grip despite the way life clings so stubbornly to him. There is little more such an illness to could do to his body, little left for it to give. The way his bones press so sharply against his skin, his coat clinging patchily across flesh rotting from the inside out, stands in such stark relief to the boundless hale and healthy. No doubt any who stumble across him now believe him already afflicted by plague’s consciousless touch.

For him, there is simply no way to win. There never has been.

He has spent the morning idly toying with the beams of light that filter through the trees, creating and crafting whimsical shapes and accoutrements that might, for only a moment, distract from his sorrowful state. He had once thought he could use the light to give him a more pleasing appearance, but it seems one cannot mask a coin of lead beneath a thin veneer of gold for long enough to matter. The moment his skin had split and bled, as it so often does, the mirage had fallen away to reveal the mire beneath as he’d tried to patch himself back together.

It seems fate has never seen fit to smile so kindly upon him.

He is not so distracted however, that the sound of approaching hooves escapes his notice. He stills, his ears trained in the direction that faint noise had emanated from. Whoever it is comes no closer, and Jinn, for all his fear of rejection, seems to have a streak of masochism hidden somewhere in his breast. Though time and truth had told over and over again it would not be so, he cannot help the hope that refuses die deep within his heart.

Perhaps one day he would be more than a monster. More than just a masque of fearful death.

Peeking through the trees, he spies a girl. A child, really, curled up against the cold embrace of a large boulder. He hesitates then, abruptly uncertain of his actions. He did not wish to frighten her. She appears so small and innocent, no doubt still free from a world that knows monsters truly exist. But he cannot seem to make himself leave either.

And so he stays hidden in the shelter of the trees. Perhaps he could give her something magical still. A way to remember him as more than a bone thin creature with a deathly visage. With only a thought, he sends a curl of light tumbling along the forest floor. It blossom before her, petals unfurling so beautifully. The only thing of his that would ever be lovely. Slowly, it reaches gentle fingers towards her, brushing across her cheek in an almost affectionate manner.

He might have nothing else to give, but he could offer the comfort she seemed to crave.

Jinn

I had a dream that we were dead,
and we pretended that we still lived

To his delight, she accepts the stray beam of light without question, youthful eyes brightening with pleasure beneath its delicate touch. For a moment, he allows himself to become lost in the purity of the moment, to enjoy a child’s innocent joy in a beautiful, ephemeral thing. It is a thing he has never been given, and that he could give it to another despite the awful reality of his existence soothes the most ragged edges of his soul.

It would be better, he thinks, if she never knew where that light came from. If she never knew of the monster who could build such fantastical shapes.

But the hope in her voice keeps him tethered to his hidden hollow, unable to retreat as he no doubt should. That brief taste of joy stirs a longing in him. A desire to see more. To give more. Perhaps the one and only time he might offer something so good and lovely, without fear of watching disgust bleed into her eyes or the sharp sting of rejection as she turned away from his frightening visage.

In this one small way perhaps, he could be her friend. Offer her comfort even if it is in such an insignificant way. And so he bends and folds the light until it becomes more solid, until it can curl lovingly across her skin, offering the warmth and touch she so longs for. He might have done so all day, but for a faint tendrel of guilt and worry that tickles at his conscience.

She is lost, and he could not keep her here, away from those she knows and loves. Those who are no doubt seeking her, desperate to find her. That knowledge wars with his own fear. With the horrifying anxiety of discovery and rejection. But in the end, his conscience would always win against the dread of his own failings.

The silence stretches so long that perhaps she has even forgotten her sad musings, moved on to new ones. But in the end, he breaks his silence, his voice echoing out from the safety of his hidden nook. “Do you… need help finding it?”

He does not peek out at her, his bravery not quite extending that far. A small part of him thinks perhaps he can remain hidden even. Be nothing more than her friend the light, beautiful in his absence.