the girl with no name - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
She gazed into my soul; her eyes of liquid amber scrutinizing things inside of which I could only dream of seeing in myself. She was a mystery. A dangerously beautiful mystery, and I was ensnared in the trap which she'd set.
The moon poured down on us, showering us with beams of light. They caught in her hair, these moonbeams, making each dark curl seem as though it was alight with passion. Her skin was illuminated by the stars; she looked deathly pale, like her heart would stop any moment, but I knew the truth. That it was beating away inside her, like a constant drum. Longingly, I devoured her face with my eyes, wishing with all my being that I could reach out and brush my hand against her perfectly shaped cheekbones, or under the feathers of her thick, dark lashes. But I refrained from doing so, and continued to succumb to the endless torture of watching her without being able to touch. She was like a china ornament, and it seemed that even the gentlest caress would break her delicate form. Her breath toppled out of her soft lips like a ball of tumble weed softly blowing through the sky. She was a fallen angel; a princess of darkness; a twilight queen. She was a mystery. A dangerously beautiful mystery. And I was in love with her.
The girl with no name.
Her body was an abstract sculpture of bones, thinly wrapped in parchment skin, so often torn and tapered that one could see the seams sewn along her flesh. Her eyes and teeth were stained yellow from smoke and vomit, and her voice burned with the boiling acid lining her vocal chords. Her hair was the color of sun-bleached bricks, like her childhood home that has since crumbled to the feet of the wealthy and the dead.
She stood naked at the mouth of the window, smoking the cigarette she had rolled just after the man had fallen asleep, aware of the scornful eyes loathing her from behind the curtains of adjacent windows. Nonetheless, she had long abandoned her shame and modesty, and no longer burdened herself with self-consciousness. The lustful wind hardened her flesh and added texture to her frail, soft anatomy. Smoked poured from her mouth and gently slipped an ashen noose around her neck.
While the rich smoked for fashion, she smoked for relief.
There are people who never need a disguise, like superman all they need to do is change a pair of glasses or a hairstyle and they are someone new. The girl was like that, she was every girl next door: not pretty, not ugly, not pale or particularly brown. She walked in a way that didn't even draw the attention of the street cameras. Her clothing wasn't overly fashionable or bright in colour. Everything about her made her blend in, as if the rain had smudged her into the sidewalk, as if she was only a shadow of no importance, more boring to observe than the litter that blew in the gutters.
Her handlers gave her a number, names were a liability. In the years since she had started her life of espionage she had forgotten what her mother used to call her. It was something short and pretty, she had loved the way it rolled from her mother's tongue, like the name itself was made of something heavenly sweet. But the name, like the mother, was buried deep in the cemetery and there was no bringing back either one of them.
The girl changed her wig more often than her undergarments. She was a brunette in the early morning light, soft curls falling to her shoulders. Before noon she wore a blonde bob and by evening time she was all red, straight hair cascading to her lower back. Her clothes underwent a similar transformation, easily achieved with the use of layers: jeans under a long skirt, a smart shirt under a casual sweater. Her name changed every mission and sometimes part way through; whatever it was they called her in the orphanage she couldn't recall. She'd find out her birth name the day she was given retirement from the service, but since the most usual exit was in a cheap pine box there was a strong chance she'd never know.
This girl was quite strange. She never did anything, but walk, sleep and eat. She only talked when she needed to and drank the smallest sips of water. Though these habits of hers were small and almost not noticeable, she seemed to draw attention wherever she went. Her eyes reflected tiredness. They were a dull blue. I had only ever seen this girl smile once and when she did, her whole face got bright, especially her eyes.They transformed into the same blue that you see in an ocean. Her ears were quite elf-like. Pointed, but cute. She wore a red sweater, an orange scarf and dark blue jeans every day.
She smiled coyly, but then again, I had only ever seen her smile once. She was never caught staring at someone, thought when I sat in front of her, I often got the feeling she was staring right through. Her eyes, piercing through my soul, going through all the lies, the secrets and the memories. The way she looked at someone was very observant. As if she was studying every single bit of them, until she had a picture of them wherever she went. She had a photographic memory. Never forgetting a single thing.
She was short in general and would usually have a dreamy look on her face, like she was not here, but somewhere very far. Somewhere happy. Her hair was long and flat and blonde. It was a platinum blonde, like a pale yellow-white like colour.
When she walked past, everyone stared at her as if she was a celebrity. But what made her a celebrity was strange. It was like she was a penguin living with a pride of lions. Her ways were odd, she waddled when she walked, she stuttered as she talked and she ate in tiny little nibbles. I can't say it's very weird or quirky, to be honest. Because honestly, if I said I'd never seen or met someone like that I would be lying. I admit it now.
I used to be like her. But instead I had foggy, misty eyes. I gazed not looked. I had thick, silky soft brown hair. But I was fragile, delicate even. I had learnt my lesson to be a lion.