Shady Character

It's a strange impression you get pale skin on dark clothing, black on white, white on black. The black accents the white, makes it brighter than snow. White accents black, makes it darker than coal. The strange thing is you can't quite separate the black from the white, or the white from the black. They glide together, melding into a maelstrom of all the colors you can't see. Maybe it's the reflection of the dim parking-orange lights on the concrete, or maybe it's just too late at night like you overprotective mother warned you, but the figure, a mere silhouette part way flesh doesn't seem real.

Your brain zooms in before you know what's happening and you can see a face. You hope you aren't really close enough to see this great of detail, but you're not really sure. Time has stopped running properly and is taking crazy flip-flops so you aren't really sure how long you've been staring. This is because you are staring. His face is a work of art, for even insane painters can recognize beauty, distorted as their life is. His skin is white as paper, drained of blood and earthy colors, comfortable expressions. On the parchment-bright skin is a story, a life of emotion written much clearer than you are used to seeing. Hate, pain, fear and cruelty both given and received have left their scars on the harsh plane of a cheek, the broken nose, the dark, endless eyes, the smudges like bruises under them. The eyes have seen more than you ever could, framed by hair blackened and smoothed by countless sins. You want badly to step back and run out of this alley, to find another way home, but you stare for only a second longer.

The shadows shift the wind whispers, and he is gone. Still standing in the alleyway, you try to remember this stranger you gazed at for so long, but all you can scrape together are a few vague sensations. Perhaps you only stared for a few seconds and the fear that heightened your senses took you memories with it. You remember the revulsion and fear you felt when you saw this shady character. . . and his eyes. Even darker than his hair, and deep pools of sorrow, you realized. Because they remind you of your little brother. How could this person feel the same innocent sorrow that you little brother expressed when he spilled milk on the new carpet? Could someone so evil be sorry to the same extent about his crimes? It seems impossible. Then another thought fights for existence in your mind. You remember your first impression of this shadowy man. Black on white, pale flesh on dark eyes, now crimes on sorrow. Even in the twilight, the man had not been totally black on white or kind on cruel. He had been gray.