Do You Know Indigo?

I Am Indigo

There is something delicious about making an inspection of Red’s new play thing. You might argue that as Indigo, I have far more important matters to attend to than praying on this new anomaly. But this girl has Red so utterly mesmerised and it seems only courteous to pay the poor, unfortunate soul a compassionate visit.

As I saunter through the gathering puddles, I muse over Red’s recent disposition. It is so unlike the demon to be so careful, so in control and it vexes me. It is only natural I want to know more, I want to seek this girl out and destroy Red as he once destroyed me.

My reasoning is more than justified.

There was nothing of great significance about the city playing host to this girl, in fact it was rather dull. Being so used to London’s erratic heartbeat and the beautiful face of the English countryside there was nothing Edinburgh could present for comparison. Then again, how could I place judgement upon the city on the basis of fleeting business trips and the gloomy building offered before me? After all, if I was to judge this mysterious girl upon the high school in front of me then I was in for a very boring afternoon.

While strolling through the gates, hands cradled in my pockets and collar upturned, two girls approach. One is ethnic I suppose, the other wide eyed with ginger hair and both completely none the wiser to my existence. I wonder where they are going and why the ethnic girl looks so disgruntled about it; she may as well have been getting dragged along by her plaits.

They pass me, quite oblivious and out through the gates. I tip my head to them, a smug grin on my face. After three hundred years, the power of invisibility never ceases to entertain me.

When asking Vince to investigate this girl, he had been rather curious and a little amused. It had been unusual, Vince was so uptight about prying into other people’s business even if it was Reds’. Yet, he had quite gladly produced the whereabouts of this girl on an average, drizzly Monday afternoon.

History class with Mr Gregory sounded like such fun.

The directions Vince had given were rather straightforward, apparently I need only turn left when I walked through the entrance doors, ascend the first stairwell I find and enter the classroom at the top – it was almost as if fate wanted me to find this girl.

I brush my hand along the hand rail once I find the stairway, almost relishing the taste of the game soon to be at hand. How Red would hate this. This girl was probably going to be easy bait too, an air head with no sense and helpless in the face of a handsome man.

The door to the history classroom was open, welcoming me into what was frankly a drool prison cell. Sizing up the class, there was no one of particular interest – though twenty bored teenagers could never be a real view of magnificence. Still, in one of those twenty faces I would find the one that had Red beholden. 

I sit myself in an abandoned chair at the back of the class. A seat at the front would have been more convenient but with the teacher’s unattractive spitting technique and need to wander so freely around the front rows, I know am safer at the back of the classroom.

I bend over, retrieving my sketchbook from my satchel. Though I had intended to make a good inspection of the girls in the class, hoping one might strike me as somewhat worthy of Red’s attention, I become far too absorbed in the presidential caricature projected onto the board at the front.

Having witnessed the Cold War’s wrath, experienced the horror and fear first hand, I understand the comical side of the illustration that seems wasted on the idle students who are making nothing but a bold attempt to stay awake.

I erase a crude line, smiling as I find a likeness in my sketch to the one on the board. Though I had had centuries to refine my art, I couldn’t help the arrogant pride I feel when looking at my work. I am an artist, a master of my craft though perhaps my grin is more to the credit of the hilarity of the caricature than my talent.