M/N: Ok folks. Unlike a lot of people, I liked this movie. Apart from the screaming at the porcupine-alien dudes, it was thoroughly enjoyable. I've had this terrible writer's block for freaking ever and I had nothing to do the other night, so I went up to my room with my laptop and just thought. I mentioned earlier to my mom that they (my parents, I mean) had to see this movie because it was good. So I thought about the movie and all of a sudden I got struck with a thought. Well, Ivy's thought actually. It was the thought of her not being 'blind' which you will find out what I mean when you read the story, if of course, you haven't hauled off already from this spectacularly long author's note (which I apologize for).
This is a longish introspective/one-shot type ficlet. I'm not sure if this is anything sensational, since I'm slightly biased to my own work, but I think it's pretty ok, and I hope you all think so too. Reviews, constructive criticism, etc. are welcome. But remember, these are Ivy's thoughts in my eyes.
Also, the parts about Ivy first realizing her feelings and a couple of details at the end are completely my ideas . . . I think. And if I have some details wrong, don't give me grief because I saw it almost two weeks ago and was busy being scared out of my comfy, reclining movie chair.
Spoilers: Yes. Take note of this.
Summary: "They say I am 'blind.'" Ivy thinks about 'blindness,' forbidden things, and her feelings about a man . . . R&R please!!
Rating: PG (because if you've seen this movie, [and if you haven't and are reading this, go away because there are spoilerish things about] you know how tense this scene was and how creepy the porcupine-alien things were, and can use your imagination)
Theme(s): 'Blindness,' forbidden things, and love ::sigh::
Blind. Do you shudder with fear when you think of what it means? Many do. They say I am 'blind.' They do not know what 'blindness' means. I am 'without sight.' A minor hitch in life. I do not mind it. Of course, I do not know any other kind of life. But we all have our imperfections, as God intended us.
Getting back to my point however, being 'blind', I think, is not seeing something which is right in front of you. You may be thinking that I misunderstand, and the two are the same, but I do not. I think 'blindness' is like being in the Schoolhouse, working on the equations you have been given, and not being able to figure them out. You know that the answer is right there, sitting beneath your eyes, yet you cannot see it. Or, better yet, you know you should know the solution, but it evades you, taunting and poking at your brain until you are so frustrated in the trying that you give up, and do not try to find a solution.
I am rambling now. I think I have somewhat of a good reason though. I ramble because, well, I am afraid. I am petrified with fear, though it might not show. I stand here, on my own porch, hand stretched out to one man, scared of what will happen. Scared of them, because I know they are close; the warning bells sounded just minutes ago. I am scared for him too. He is out there; I can tell because he has not come to me.
Our minds have been embedded since birth with the words of the elders: that we should fear Those We Do Not Speak Of. They are terrifying creatures (even I am scared of them, and I have never seen them!) which, if we are unlucky enough to come across one, will . . . well, we do not know what they will do, but it is most definitely something unspeakable. They told us the forbidden color.
We are not to have that color. I admit that I do not understand why it is bad, it is just a color, but obviously it offends them in some way, so it must be avoided. So why do they wear a robe of it? I am told they wear a large robe of the forbidden color. They are confusing. Is it so silly that just a color should instill such fear in a person?
This forbidden color . . . what makes it so special? Why is it different from all the other colors? If God has made such a color in the world, why should we fear it? It is His work, and unless Those We Do Not Speak Of are acting as an intermediary between God and ourselves (which I do not believe they are, because they seem to have violence in their nature), I think it is a perfectly acceptable part of life. A color cannot harm you . . . it is just a color.
We learn in school that our body has blood in it (a very simple fact of nature), and that our body is kept alive by blood. It is generally understood, though not outright spoken, that blood has the color of that which is forbidden. Why, out of all the colors in the world, would God make our blood that color? Does this mean that our blood is forbidden? That which keeps us alive is bad? Or that our bodies are forbidden; we are forbidden things ourselves? Or is blood what Those We Do Not Speak Of hate, so it is forbidden?
So our blood that is the forbidden color helps us to live. Why is the color bad, then? Our blood keeps our bodies working: our brain, our lungs, our hearts . . . The bad color is in our hearts. So then are our hearts forbidden? Are we forbidden to feel, to show emotion . . . to love? Is that why loving is so difficult? Because, by some strange connection, the bad color is love? Is that why he never touches me? Because it would show love for me, and to love me is forbidden? Love should not be forbidden . . .
He is the one man (my sisters are another story altogether), besides my father, I would gladly brave death for. It is awful to say so, but I think, even though I would agree to, I would not gladly brave death for anyone else. I would do it sort of like a burden or a chore I do not wish to do. He is the one person I would go into the woods for, that I would wear the forbidden color for with careless abandon, that I would even think of being with.
He is a good man. How could he not be, when he is the only one who has a color? When he is the only one to break through my shadowy sight with anything other than black? I wonder if his color is the forbidden one? Ha, what a funny thing that would be! I have known him since before I can remember, and never have I met such a man. He has always been the 'silent and strong' type, saying more with his silence than with blathering like the other boys. He tells more with the clasp of his hand than with any words professed breathlessly.
My, I am getting dramatic. You must understand that I am quite biased, of course. And also, any touching was done much earlier in our relationship (and I mean relationship in the loosest possible way) when we were still friends. The 'were' I speak of had no definite beginning or end, as far as I know. Everything melded together in one great blur, and I cannot tell you an exact date or time when anything started to happen.
I do know that the motions started when he did not touch me anymore. We were always something like playmates, I being the tomboy that I was, and even though he was quite a bit older, we still got on marvelously as friends. And then he stopped playing like he used to. He never so much as took my hand to lead me when I was lost anymore.
I was deathly afraid he hated me for some unknown reason. I certainly had never been mean or hurtful to him, unless in jest. I could not figure it out. He used to lead me around the town, walk with me in the hills, stroll the roads, even run with me, and then he just stopped. He was still around, less so, but he did not disappear. I yearned for his playing and his company. It was like I had lost my best friend.
Which, in a way, I had actually. But lost him for entirely different reasons than I suspected. He was not just my friend anymore. I think I finally saw the light (no pun intended) one perfectly normal day awhile ago. I was with him and Noah and we were sitting around in the grass, feeling the breeze rifle past us on some errand of its own, and I realized that he was very near to me. He was so near that we could almost touch, but we were not. Then, Noah was playing roughly with something (I could not tell what, but it must have been dangerous) quite close, and Lucius, in an unnatural outburst of anger, harshly told him to stop playing with it so closely around me.
I, at first, thought nothing of it, mostly because I had to assure Lucius I was all right, and convince Noah that Lucius was right in what he said. Later that night, however, with an audible gasp I realized why Lucius acted the way he did: he was trying to protect me. And he was trying to protect me because . . . he loved me. It all added up: with the not touching, the protectiveness, the silences, the closeness yet feeling far away, care he still showed, the refusing of my sister's love.
It was because he loved me. And with a second audible gasp in close succession, I realized I loved him too. You might think I finalized my love only because I knew he loved me. That is not so. The ache I felt for his company was not just friendliness and compassion for, what I thought was, a lonely soul. It was my heart reaching out for the person I loved; loved spending time with, loved talking to, loved playing with, loved in return, wanted to be with.
Well, I have never been one to smooth over feelings, of my own and others. I am quite straightforward, as I am told by my father, and I did not waste time in telling Lucius I felt the same (if, indeed, my assumptions were correct). Of course, I did not right out tell the man, that would be much too forward, and overstep the boundaries of propriety which society has made, and I have set for myself concerning him. But I gave him many, many indications that I was not unwelcome to his affections.
It almost became something that I had always known (though I knew that was not true). I loved Lucius. I did not hide that I liked him greatly, like he did me. Just yesterday, I practically flat out told him I knew of his affections (Dear God, I pray I am not mistaken about this!). When we were sitting on that rock across the meadow, we talked, albeit slightly uncomfortably. Or, rather, I talked.
I always joke with him about his color. I say that I could sense he was there because I could see his color and you had better not ask me what it is Lucius Hunt because I will never tell you. I think he gets exasperated by this because he never asks, I just pretend like he does. Noah went off somewhere to look at things, I suppose, and we were left alone.
I think Lucius gets uncomfortable when we are alone . . . like the strain of lack of contact is physically paining him . . . at least that is what I imagine (or hope) to be true. I was not saying what I wanted to correctly either. I told him, in my own way I guess, that I knew why he did not touch me. I said something like, "Sometimes we stop doing things we want to do so other people will not know that we want to do them."
I think that was the moment he realized that I knew why he did not touch me and was distant (dare I hope, I heard a gasp?). I told him I remembered when he used to lead me around everywhere by my arm, and then he suddenly stopped. He was still caring, he just never touched. I am positive he was about to say something when Noah reappeared. I think Noah has a small infatuation with me . . . he can get quite jealous sometimes.
So, you see, Lucius was blind to the fact that I knew about him and that I felt the same way. He was so set on not letting anyone else know about his affections, he could not see what was right in front of him: that I felt the same way; that I loved him. Being 'blind' is not the same as being 'without sight.'
And I am so afraid that I will not be with him again if he does not take my hand. I can hear them coming nearer and nearer. My heart pounds. It is so dark. I cannot see his color. Oh God in Heaven, let him come! They are closer . . . one is nearby to me. My heart pounds harder, drowning out a lot of sound. Oh God, I am going to die. He is not here. My breathing is ragged and I feel icy fear run through my veins. Is he dead already? Then I welcome death. I will be with him. Oh! I hear them. They are so near to me! I am so afraid. I am so afraid. Where is Lucius? Where is he? Oh God give me courage!
And suddenly, I see him; his color. He is running to me. He grabs my hand. He clutches me, clings to me. We run in the house, down to the cellar . . . and we are safe. We are not dead. He is with me. He is with me. Oh Lord above, thank You! I am with him; he is safe, thank You Lord! My heart is still pounding, but with happiness. I am so happy, I am crying (although I admit some of those tears are from being so scared).
And he is still hanging onto my hand. He is touching me. A warmth surges through my veins now, chasing out the ice. I felt the ice in the pit of my stomach when I thought he was gone. It is quickly melted when I realize he is still holding me, squeezing my hand against his chest, his breathing hard and ragged. He is touching me. Oh God, can it be true? Is he touching me? I squeeze his hand back as I realize he is alive and well and still touching me.
Oh glorious contact! Is it wrong to need him like this? I think he needs me too . . . at least I hope so. But from the way he is touching me, I think he is less frightened that others would know. And I know he is not blind anymore. This cannot be forbidden, this warm feeling. This love . . .
::Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within. -James Baldwin::
::Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength; loving someone deeply gives you courage. - Lao-Tzu::