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I met him in the dark.
A slight figure—so battered, bruised, and scarred—was all he was, sparked and impoverished as he glanced upon the balcony, eyes transfixed on a monster in the midst.
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I remembered him in the light.
A sun—endlessly ethereal, shining and admonishing—littered the scene, two mere boys playing upon the ebony stairwell, no thoughts but one another’s semipiternal presence.
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.
To return to those days—simple and plain—was a goal I could never perceive. I had thought none of the before, as memory mused marvelous devastation, but a longing transfixed itself upon my blackened heart. Indeed, I professed, I ached, I willed, I wished, I—
I wanted—
I wanted him to know.
To know what had become of an age-old, anemoic figure—a ray-dazzled child simplified as a happy reflection. To know that I had not been a mere platform in his life, existing to react, respond, adhere to the solipsist ideals all feel but deny (I mean not to displace nor project, but do so otherwise), but had indeed encountered a life—a lacking livelihood—that so shriveled his own derelict disposition. Perhaps my dismay, so contrived and ascribed, could be confirmed—reasoned, rationalized—and I would be correct in my resolute, yet desolate demise. To observe my terror, the horror it bred, and indulge in my bedroom whispers—partake in the hate and lurid words I choked upon. I could never be indicted if pre-emptively assumed, posthumously recognized for all I had ever been—
And now, unsurreptitiously, become.
Wind thrust upon the balcony, and its eerie edges—fronting, forceful, revealing—assaulted all I could perceive. It stole a handful of feathers, none to be missed, and threw them upon the open ether—swirling as a whirlpool, although juxtaposed against the sky. Their inkiness disgusted me, the fleecy bits fleeting as they curved in candor throughout the breadth of the air, wind holding on tightly as the feathers grew stodgy of its grasp. They squirmed—abruptly, irregularly—and exhumed themselves, the batch’s most graceful falling upon him as his widened eyes left my narrowed vision.
Perhaps the tangibility of the fact, to feel a part of me, was confirming enough.
Perhaps the sensation of the fact, a visage imparted in touch, was rectifying enough.
Perhaps witnessing my pained whimper, not recognized from below but felt devoid of pretense, was enough.
I felt disturbed by his hastiness, quickened steps marching upon the snow-shaken soil as a determined—wonderfully human, what lovely flesh!—face sought the creature above. I was still, silent and waiting for the volta to ascertain—
It never did.
He was scaling the walls before I could protest—as though a linguistic attempt could ever be made from my mutilated throat—the frozen stone rubbing raw against his calloused palms. I would have winced otherwise, but little care placated my gnawing unrest. He would not—could not—make it, destined and doomed to slip and rest in the wintry wasteland of a place I was chained to. The ice below would stop, but not sate, the tumble, all concentration instead flooding through his dense little self. In such a case, I would look down upon his writhing corpse, pure white snow dyed red under a fool’s errand. I may feel saddened for a second, and—on occasion—swoop down to examine the body for myself. If it moved, then the cold’s wicked bite could devour the bones; however, if it was still, then I might spare a second to bury the deceased.
But he did not fall.
He clawed at the cracked masonry, nails dug, and arms shivering in exertion. A pale overcast lined his scar-sunk skin, moody purple and burgundy hues nearly lilac as his seething intent skewed. By no means was he prepared for such elements—no lousy tunic or pair of trousers, despite the thickness, could withstand my prison’s climate. I meant not to hope for death—at best, he would freeze over, lashes iced pinpricks, before seeing my face at close—but the fear of his victory left me more shaken than expected. I, myself, was riddled with awakened anticipation, awaiting with a tempered enticement that had suppressed itself for far too long. So, so many years had passed since a spur of warmth lent itself, thus I shall never apologize for the presumed antsiness his existence trifled me with.
Still—a chance conferred, bestowed with grit, and who was I to judge? Was my wretchedness dismissed? Could a dream ever persist? I could not resist the train of thought, but—looking upon the sordid monster, reflected on shards of glass—cloudless acuity returned.
And thus a hand, a sloughing, sinuous shape marred by beaded rivulets of rocked interface, lurched through.
It shuffled around the premises, scraping at whatever squawk of a grip it could find. Struggling, the hand repositioned itself upon the balcony’s somber ledge, a slight quaver in its trembled pursuit. By now, I had retreated into the shrunken room’s sides, little winged crevices no match for my own. I bent myself over, head tucked over talons with a great downiness concealing unsavory details, and watched with a hawkish precision. A screen, decorated and wastefully dirty, lay between I and the intruding appendage. Still, he had yet to enter, stuck on pulling himself up through the filthy sleet that lined the dampened stone. I watched with pleasure, more and more of that pastel slightness coming into form, but had not yet braced myself for the welcoming’s rapporting reprieve.
Heavy, worn boots breaching the final fissure, he conquered the rimy precipice with the same unobtrusiveness I had felt threatened by—many, many years prior. He pushed himself one last time, nearly folding over the sharp sill. Cracked skin met frigid frost one last time, a rising silhouette bathed in venerable moonlight. Standing with a recoursing valor, he balanced himself—such lovely verdant eyes, unblemished and untouched in abutment to the awry and maimed palette he possessed. So gnarled and flaking, damaged and disfigured, yet his heart beat truer than mine ever could—
Stop.
...
Stop.
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Stop.
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Stop.
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Stop.
... / - / --- / .--.
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Twenty-two.
Morning.
Twenty-two in the morning.
Night sky—
Bleak.
Humbles cries—
From me.
Little gem,
Crystal clear—
“Why not take a peek
In this mirror, you see?”
Soffit sights—
Vulnerability.
Stained-glass lies—
All from me.
Excuses,
Excuses—
Complaints,
For days.
At last,
So keen—
Dropped upon the balcony scene,
The mirror! It seems!
Has unleashed a curse—
Detrimental, on me!
Warped and mishapen—
Malformed, no containment!
Lost at last—
To raven-wood seams!
Twisting malice,
Senseless, I’ve had it—
Would you search for me?
I’ve been here, prolonged—
Would you die for me?
Waiting, watching,
Bewitched, bespoken—
A plaster sight
Is all my light—
Dazed, unfazed,
Albeit hazy!
I fly not,
Sleep not,
Eat not,
Breathe not,
Be not,
Am not—
Ever,
Ever,
Free;
Beastly—
Regardless—
Will I ever be me?
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He walked without embellishment, pacing and seeking with a gait I loved so dearly.
It was a banal sort of pleasure, ridicule-worthy in its austere adherence to such brooked notions. Unoriginal, utterly typical, and irreversibly—inconsolably—boring. Indeed, my love was a cambric thing, far from candid in its bereaved sort of mocked sincerity. I hated his perfection, mourned the loss of my own, and purported the idea that it existed in the first place.
Through grief, he gained acumen.
I, no longer human.
Through loss, he likened liberty.
I, unforgivability.
Through sorrow, he saw sensation.
I, inhibition.
And through death, he denied departure.
I, none the wiser.
Still searching, he had begun to grow frantic. Fractures marred that fearless, ardent composure, of which I indulged upon most villainously. To see him crumble—my own making—and feel a shred of the pain—
No.
Not again.
Did that thought not start this mess?
Evil and obtrusive,
Wretched and intrusive—
An abhorrent,
Grimy accomplice.
No more.
I could scarcely bring myself to unfurl from my still-stuck position, to unwrap my wings and lay bare my horrid form. I had been so adamant prior, but the seething tendrils of self-sanctified prostration were but a radical rumination to my present mind’s views. He had seen my outline earlier—blurred, yes, from the thick snow and undeniable distance—thus a precursor was employed. Regardless, the shadows’ safety was too tempting—satiating even—as it fauxly warmed the chill of an emerging yearn. My heart burned in spite of the cold, fickle and aching, beating like never before with an unmatched grandeur. I choked on the fervent display—a small noise, chirp-like echoing—easing tighter within the penitentiary of a body my mind inhabited. A ceaseless banging clouded my hearing, ears—if not feather-stricken and unceremoniously fluffed—liable to be burning, flushed chasms of the most upfront demeanor. Steps grew closer, gingerly hushed, as a lone swipe of the ornamental screen gave rise to a contact unmatched.
Ah.
Loss amplifies longing.
Whether it was the animal in me—distasteful creature, revolting little beast—recognizing a tender prey or the boy in me—regressed, injurious pity, charming delight—reacting, the sight was too much to bear.
Mine.
He stood still—verdant eyes observant as ever—and for a brief second, I may have imagined a wet sheen glazed upon those brilliant irises. He saw first, but my forsaken noises—garbled, birdish, astringent—were heard and matted feathers soon felt.
Those hands—still raw, relentless, home—on whatever it was that I possessed! Indeed, prevent the moment’s conclusion, my lord, and I shall be your eternal vulture! The sensation—never soft in actuality, but so delicate in meaning—flooded, vehemently addicting. My tepid walls were no more; for, my scorched prince was here! How he could recognize (I shall question not; my heinous heart concurs!) was unknown, but the extent of my portency reached such similar heights. Impropriety knew no bounds—my love, my love, my love!
He said nothing for a nearly flagitious while, a masticating placidity interrupted solely by our breathing’s stipended tonnage. I was reluctant to reach out, accursed little behemoth, guilty and impertinent. Responding, he hushed my shame, two figures—man and monster—entwined in a protracted, yet suffused bliss. I, no longer a truant, unscrupulous troglodyte, relished in the sensation—sifting, sieving, and coalescing with cacoethes. My sabbatical could never be forgiven, but perhaps, at long last, my state would desist!
I performed the next action, a fragile ministration from a revolting pariah. He was sacrosanct, ephemerally, and the texture of his scars—marked, marred, burned, and beautiful—fell into place. The feeling had never left me, but the loss had heightened my appreciation for our time spent all those years ago.
And, thus, I knew—
I will never say goodbye again.
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We met in the dark.
He collided with a resolution so admirable that it was envy-inducing.
A gentle regard and stunning symphony, we were one in spurts—then and now, forever, and in-between. He, my panacea, was here, perspicuous as my attention came pure and unpilfered. Moments, so lengthy, were but a breath in the frozen sky, but I still wished for their interminability. Voices were heard but words unspoken, instinct and impression navigating all.
Finally, by dawn’s morning light, the first sentiment was shared.
“I never lost hope.”
I could not say the same, whether literally or figuratively. Mild annoyance bristled through me, and I turned away to express such.
“Why?”
Simple, empty; I shook my head.
He remained undeterred. “You gave up?”
I made no movement. He appeared dissatisfied; nevertheless, I faced him again and leaned closer. A quiet hum escaped me.
“Every day. Every day, I asked myself why.”
Silence, heavy.
“I never had an answer.”
Silence, heavier.
“And now I do.”
Silence, heaviest; then scratching.
Rough, robust, irritating. The sound was torturous and would be more so if not of my own volition. I was quick in the process, stone concisely malleable under my talons’ pressure. Each character, jagged and beveled, was an insult, but my uncouth muteness was acutely intolerable—especially when met with this passion, entangled.
He stood up, dawn and her watercolored solitude—drunken oil pastels—painting the early morning in total serenity. I, still focused on my carving, did not look to check his countenance, but I easily imagined the pondering expression he must have adorned. Mainly confused, partially bashful, and a bit outdone—lovely and neat, as tied with a baby blue bow. I indented the final mark—a down-facing slash—and shuffled away from the display as he read, brows knit in bewilderment.
Finally, he finished.
I love you, it read.
I love you, I said.
“I love you, too,” he echoed.
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.
.
A flash,
Quick.
A spark,
Sudden.
Me.
Myself.
Free.
And so—
We remembered in the light.