what the forest hides :: tom

[Arrows]

The wood is soft, supple, within the folds of his fingers. It's aged roots run adjacent to a small still-water pond as several of its tendrils tenderly tip into the surface. The water-warped wood makes for the perfect aisle of his art. His knife can glide so gently over every inch of its body, the face within it swiftly stirring from its slumbering state. Hugo is at peace beside his picturesque pond, a rare smile even smudging the lines of his face. He could spend eternity here with the wood and water, away from the hands of hardship and snarls of seclusion. Here there is no judgement, only the forest and him.

Or so he believed.

Her scream sends his blade straight through the corner he had been carefully carving. While panic floods the face of the stranger, sorrow swarms Hugo's ocean eyes. The severed nose of his craft disrupts the water's edge as it dives into the depths of the pond. Hugo's hands scramble in a splashing surge after it only to leave him wrecked by water and fingers flooded with mud. He can barely hear the girl's barbaric cries to her boyfriend over the sound of his shattering spirit. He doesn't need to raise his eyes to their's or try to disprove their delirium. He lets the mask fall to the forest floor. He easily sacrifices another piece of himself to the chaotic cacophony of the galaxy that scars his skin.

He walks further into the forest, alone, followed only by the pain of foreign laughter.

Dying leaves crunch quietly beneath Hugo's slow steps before he stops by a small stream. Hands covered in mud wriggle through the soft current as eyes of hurt stare blankly forward. He should have known he was too close to the path. He should have expected to be seen, to have his smile stolen again. He almost stops scrubbing his hands to let himself laugh, he did know all those things. If anything, he grieves more for the mask than himself. It was shaping into something stunning, something more than the reflection of a boy bound by the brutality of society's unwarranted judgement. Perhaps he will go back tomorrow before dawn, before those with whips for tongues can find the figure of their fascination.

Several yards away from the rambling stream, Hugo comes across a patch of light pink flowers. Freshly rinsed fingers pluck one from its place and teases it in front of his nose. The scent is light and sings of sweetness, but the petals are what capture Hugo's attention. One after another he harvests enough to create a lovely new set of paint while leaving plenty to replenish themselves in the coming seasons. He can see it already, a face far bolder than his own. A face full of vibrant illumination rooted in a shadowed charcoal undertone. 

"Une belle idée."

Hugo whispers as he places the parcel of pink petals into his satchel. His hands bring something else forth from the folds of his bag in exchange. A finished mask he forgot to hang by his crafting bench at home. It is a blatant opposite to the new idea igniting his imagination. The one he holds is one of tender orange and speckled spots of white and black, a fox's face reborn into a wooden world. Hugo pulls it onto his head and in an instant he feels free. When he's behind a mask it doesn't matter what the world thinks of him, he can be anyone, even himself.

But the euphoria erupts into worry when the sound of steps echos through the fox's hollowed ears. Hugo knows how far into the forest he is now, most people don't dare to come so deep. His hands wrap tightly around the tasseled strap of his satchel as his eyes peer through the slits of his design. Although his heart is hammering, Hugo picks precisely which path he wants to take. He leans into his legend, hoping to frighten away whoever's shadow he sees slipping through the trees.

"Ne t'approche pas!"

He mixes his words despite the soft tone he can't destroy.

"Don't come any closer!"