Indifferent towards the world outside because "they" mocked him with life, by living in the light. He fled from it by staying in doors. He peered out to watch people as they went about their days. He lived vicariously through his neighbors, dreaming that he too, was among the living.
Once dusk fell, Writ would wander out into the busy city streets. Unable to relate to others, he kept to himself, and stayed as quiet as one can. He would sit in restaurants and listen to conversations. This was his favorite thing to do, as it gave his imagination ammunition to create characters for his dreams. Story lines for what could be, what might be, and what really has been.
He was observing and listening to a couple argue inside a restaurant. The woman accused the man of having an affair, and the man was denying it with an immense passion. The man stood up, yelled some vulgar words, shook his head with an absolute look of disgust on his face, and then admitted to doing everything he was accused. The woman sat there sobbing into her hands. The man had confessed his sin to the whole restaurant, and he walked straight out the restaurant door. Everyone stared in disbelief at the scene that just unfolded.
A waitress came over, handed the woman a tissue, and told her, "Everything is on the house." The owner walked over next and gave the devastated woman a shot of whiskey. He sat down and began to talk to her as if he knew her. Writ comes here every night for a cup of coffee, and the owner acts like he knows everyone.
It was all a real spectacle to Writ. He couldn't relate, especially when the owner became a little too comfortable with the broken woman. It was twisted to Writ, that a man could be such a vulture in that situation. There was no real compassion. "This is the norm," he whispered to himself.
The norm, why was it he wished to be normal again? Heartlessness seemed to be the norm, and it was disturbing to him. Writ paid for his coffee, and took off into the night. He wandered the streets, wondering how people can be so cruel. Is it just a natural human characteristic that leads to self-serving? Is it a survival mechanism built into humans that cause them to behave in such disgusting manners.
This was a mild scene he witnessed this night, compared to other nights. He walked the streets for hours, and always made it home before the sun rises. Writ did not understand his purpose, nor why people avoid him. He was a good looking man, but it seemed to him that he must possess some type of demeanor that kept people away. Never did he suspect that he should approach someone and begin a conversation, as he never felt he knew what he would say.
That changed the next night at the restaurant, when he saw a a dark haired woman wearing sunglasses at night, and she was oblivious to everyone else in the restaurant. He couldn't really tell what she was doing, it was either writing or drawing. That piqued his interest, so he stood up with his coffee, and sat down next to her.
"What are drawing," Whit asked.
She responded, "You."
Whit was shocked. There, on her pad of paper was a drawing of him. She turned the page, and there was another drawing from him the night before. She turned the page again, and again... the drawing pad was all images of him. He was taken aback.
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