Distant Sunshine
The final crest of sunlight, painted deep, bloody red--leaving a soggy trail of wash behind--sank down into the womb of the earth. The trees swayed and moaned in the thick wind, their leaves dancing and trembling. Creatures of the night were beginning to rouse themselves from their daylight sleep, uttering their greetings to the ferocity of the darkness that enveloped all in its blind arms. Reverent, bony arms of stripped, dead trees reached skyward, their knotholes as mouths screaming for vengeance against the horrid winds that had uprooted them and cut their hundred year life short. Another sharp and cutting wind tore across the land, lifting the boughs and stringy greenery of every bit of foliage before moving on. The wind woke everything and shook the ground out of slumber.
Haunting clouds like blotches of ink began to spread, breaking over the last vantage points of the sun's triumphant victory for yet anther day. As it had for ages past and would for ages to come, the war lines faded and night swept over half of the world, shrouding it in fear. Although some thought it was peaceful, less obtrusive, on this particular dusk, there was the obvious stench of death in the air and the imminent danger of nocturnal battle. On this night, there was more to worry about than bats and feral beasts. On this night, there was a warrior in search of enemies.
His eyes were unending pools of deep blue anger and vivid sadness. He stood among the deadened trees and laid his hand upon their weeping trunks. The cold steel of a gun against his side was almost overpowering. His entire body was whispering, begging him to draw blood. Across the hills and hidden behind rows of green, lively oaks, there was his target. A large, brick mansion with windows like eyes surveying the night as it fell closer. He began on his trek down the dangerous slopes ridden with snakes and holes and mire. Watching closely, the house slowly began to shut its eyes, falling asleep, bidding the foreboding beam of the moon a farewell. Perhaps the last, he thought, feeling the wind brush against his face, scattering his hair like frightened animals over his blue eyes.
When he'd finally reached the sleeping mansion, he stood at the wall and began climbing up and up, aided by a harness pulley, peering into each window as he passed it. At long last, he'd stopped at the final window and pried it open, leaving the ropes where they dangled for later use. Inside, in the cool, tingly atmosphere of the house was inviting and comfortable. Scents of spiced tea and cookies lingered about like spirits seeking their loved ones to no avail. He crept silently down the long oriental runner, sneaking by closed doors and portraits. Just around the bend there was a musical humming, sweet as honey, flowing into the shell of his ear for him to track and stalk like prey.
There was an open door, and he could see her sitting at the vanity, brushing her long amber locks with a brush. For a fleeting moment, he could see his own cold reflection next to hers, but quickly moved away. Such a monster didn't deserve to be so close to her. Nonetheless, he waited and waited until she'd crawled into her bed and turned off the last light in the house.
Now's my chance, he muttered, upon hearing the lower sections of the house register faint signs of life.
He treaded the floor, taking the strides long and hard. Not a single sound was made, until he saw her laying there beneath the silken sheets. An angel. She was an angel and he couldn't keep his eyes on her for too long. Too beautiful to be seen, he knew, turn away and don't come back. Still he pushed himself onward, reaching back for the grip, seeking the security it offered with its grinding texture. The angel stirred, rolling over to let him see her face.
he whispered, I have to do this.
The moment ebbed at him as waves on the shore and touched the fibers in his very being. Do it, shoot her, get it over with. Destroy her, send her to heaven where she belongs. She can do no harm there, go ahead. Kill her, his mind started to chant it like a mantra. His finger pulled over the trigger, feeling the notch glide by. Past the halfway point, no stopping now. The only thing that would prevent him from shooting her would be one of two things. His finger to fumble, or his heart to do the same. The angel moaned a bit and moved to her back. The warrior closed his eyes, having her in his pure sights. He swore to God that it was the only way and pressed down with all his might.
No one else was in the house now, he knew. They were alone. Deep red began to seep over the covers, spreading to fill almost every bit of white the covers around her had to offer. The bullet was lodged in her heart, still pumping fleetingly, and her breath was hard and heavy in the silence. Her eyes had shot open the second he squeezed the round off. And she'd let out a painful groan when it passed through her breast and found a permanent home in her heart. In a last effort to make peace, the warrior sat next to her and held her blood-soaked hand, the gun still warm in the other. He leaned down over her as her chest began to slow its rise and fall, shallowing more and more. The angel's eyes flittered as he pressed his lips to hers. Their tears mixed, and so did their blood. For a bullet soon nested itself in his own heart and let them rest, for eternity.
Later that night, the lovers were found, laying together, their hands clasped together. Faint smiles laced their lifeless faces, and the world began to shed tears in the darkness, with the optimistic sunshine seeming so distant, so far, that it would surely never rise without the life they both held so dearly. For the world, they lived. But for themselves, they died.
The End.