Skylar Mark Trowling was five foot eight and very gaunt. He almost had the appearance of someone who had been starved for many years. He had straight black hair that fell loosely to his shoulders though never quite touched them. His eyes were a green that almost seemed to glow even in broad daylight and this stood out immensely against his pale skin and dark attire. He always wore black as if in eternal mourning for something long gone. His face was badly scarred. One scar, the most noticeable, started at the base of his left ear and extended down across his cheek and down as far as the nape of his neck just barely missing his chin on the way. The worst scars, however, could not be seen.
Whenever Skylar walked he did so with his shoulders slumped and hands in his pockets. Yet he did not look down he looked straight ahead, very aware, watching countless lips form words he would never hear. He had to keep watching because his two glowing green eyes were his only link to the world, the only connection to the endless voices and sounds that would never quite reach him. Walking was all he really did though. All the while watching, and thinking, always thinking while he watched. It was as if he wasn’t even part of this world. As if he were an outsider and this was a silent movie playing out before him.
He never spoke either. Even if he wanted to he couldn’t. That was another basic human attribute that he lacked. If he wanted to communicate with anyone beside himself he would have to do so through writing. He did a lot of this but it wasn’t for anyone else but him to read. Who else would want to read what he wrote? Had he a voice, who would want to hear his troubled words? A voice doesn’t even matter when there is no one to listen.
His thoughts were deep and tortured. Why did the world have to be so cruel to Sklar Mark Trowling? He didn’t even ask for much. In fact the way he saw it, in a perfect or almost perfect world his lack of speech and hearing would be his only problem. However in this world where perfection is far from even being a myth reality hits hard and cold. The very same nightmarish event that robbed him of his sound also robbed him of all those who mattered. He did have happy thoughts at times because no matter what happened he was still human. Yet they were few and far between. Why should he be happy when he shouldn’t even be alive? Why did he have to be the one to survive? Why had his pain been so bad that he couldn’t call for help? When was this nightmare of a life going to end? These are questions that he is always asking himself. Questions that can never be answered.
Nobody really thought of Sklar anymore than they would think of there own shadow. That’s all he really was to anyone. Why waste your time trying to befriend the deaf mute who, on top of it all, was an emotional roller coaster. To his doctors he was just another patient, a number, a statistic, another lost cause. To everyone else he didn’t even exist. Just another person you pass on the street, in the crowded mall, or in the coffee shop; just one of countless people whose lives mean nothing to you. He is Sklar Mark Trowling, just another person whose story you will never know. Just another path that yours will never cross. Just a stranger.