Creative writing: The Innocent Boy

This is his story.

He walked towards the mirror and knealt down on the night of a full moon, it’s reflection mirrored in the glass. He stopped. His inner evaluative speech triggered his thoughts to reconcile the attachment developments he experienced as a child as he remembered all he had courageously fought through; the mirror having no idea of his hot cognition and the thoughts scraping within his frontal lobe, illogical but overwhelming in deep thinking and solitude.

His eyes were an ombré hazel with a white grey lining, luminous with a dark purple centre. His hair an eerie black, full and fine, flowing discreetly past is pale crimson forehead. His nose, a burnt shade of red, pressed against the pane creating a smear of condensated matter.

He peered more deeply.

It wasn’t a mirror or a glass – it was an icy pool of cold moods, his tears icicles of winter snow, his body a sculpture of stillness. It wasn’t a shop window he was peering into – it was a frozen lake. The lake. The lake of death as they call it. The lake that takes the minds of many suffering so quietly, so elegantly, the lake that has created blessings, the lake a pool of a thousand diamonds. Diamonds that couldn’t speak up about their feelings. Diamonds that so swiftly declined and deteriorated due to the pressures of living within a tormented mind with a soft soul. His soul a powerful reminder of his pressured self-esteem – his body so bare. 

Oh how someone would help him, but no one could be seen.

 

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