In The Face of The World
Section 1 - The Man Who Overlooked the World
Chapter 1
A long spiny scratch on the surface of the wood. A dry thumb brushes over to no avail, I feel the indents, the jagged scar fresh on my skin memory. A smear does little to better the travesty, a cloudy line running down the length of the cut strangely yellow, is glossed over and dulled.
They say these are nothing more than material possessions and to this, I agree, it is just a scratch, and not one that drastically mars its appearance in any way particular. Just a slight application of colored wax to fill it up. But this was solid ebony, no veneer, cut from a grove of trees that longer exist, spent two fortunes on this desk. And this crack chiseled in the wood - solid ebony, shelves, knobs everything! I used to make everyone who entered this room marvel at her beauty. Feel her grain that rich wood, solid black all over, and look at that sheen, what a lovely finish!
And still, the yellowed crack persists taunting and daring for the rest to warp and peel off into that ugly yellow mass, taunting and provoking. I finally lift my head off the table. Cold, a chess board lies flat on the ground its pieces scattered all over the marble. Papers scattered everywhere and half the books on the rafters have toppled. A sconce on the wall lies shattered on the ground, the yellow wax hardened around a sheet, the wax which consumed the flame so that it left behind black streaks barely singeing my desk and nothing more. The flame could have grown into an inferno, the matter is heavy on my mind. Would my sleeping mind have been roused from the pinpricks of pain as my flesh burst open and crumpled to ash? Would I awaken in agony and scream as I was consumed alive or would the dense smoke have smothered my voice and sedated my senses till I crept into deep sleep? To be lifted into the air under the ecstasy that comes from the deprived and to convulse in rigor until the very end. The table should have burst into flames but the fire lacked heat. The room was ice cold, she was ice cold, her touch was ice cold, a touch her specter lent to the air and just as quickly withdrew once the sconce shattered. Her frozen fingertips biting through layers of cloth as she circled around in predatory fashion. Her heels pressing against the cold marble, biting. Her voice dark and luscious, callous. I lay in a stupor, twisting, suspended by her words, the songs of the winter and the dark tunnel of which I fell through and through until I stopped resting on dew and loaves of sweet-smelling grass. I saw his face glistening in the sunlight and I trembled milky tears, endless trails across my face, falling below my knees where it pools. Sunlight, sunset, this was the tide of our world, the irony of the triumphant medley that always appeared when the sun descended behind its hill.
I am preoccupied. Something disturbs me to an extent, something more perturbing than when Port snacks on his Sunday sandwich and leaves yellow mustard stains all over his white mustache. It is indeed appalling but I am afraid that is no time for trifle matters. As for trifle matters, this feels similar to a story, a kid's story you've probably heard before about a princess that lived imprisoned in a tower overlooking the clouds. The prison was her caretaker, weathered stone fused with mortar, enchanted to provide the princess with sustenance and protection from the perils of the world. Her guardian was by no means a companion and she grew up isolated in her desolate chamber, a small circular room with only an open window for her to look outside. Brave birds, not so different from seraphs, the only earthly creatures capable of visiting her domain provided her with fleeting company. Those who ventured close, through curiosity or attracted by the calls of her kind, tender voice, were horrifically repulsed by some unseen barrier. Wiser ones soon learned better and as time passed their gentle presence gradually vanished. Years went by and vines and pales swathes of moss began scaling the length of her walls. Her hair by now had long grown past her feet. It circled the circumference of her chambers several times about until it seemed as if she would be strangled by the tangled mass of her own hair. Desperate for a breath of air, she tossed her tresses out her solitary window where they sailed past the clouds and tumbled for a long time before finally hitting the ground. And thus a defect in the construct's architecture had finally arisen. A passing prince had witnessed the strange union of her hair with the dark earth and out of curiosity he grappled up the spire. Clutching her hair as if they were coils of rope, he bypassed the tower's security and reached her window receiving access to what had been forbidden for all those years.
I suppose there is a lesson to be learned from this story, a valuable lesson that often falls on deaf ears. A tower can only stand so long before a tiny crevice renders its craft useless and sends it tumbling into the sea. The great pyramids meant to protect the bodies of the ancient Sanus kings for all eternity now sit in ruins. I think to Ozymandias as the epitome of the fleeting sovereignty of man and his constructions. Once the ruler of a mighty civilization, his visage now lies shattered in the barren desert, his head half buried before the still-standing remnants of his granite knees. We trust in the strength of our walls, yet time and time again they forsake us. The few who resist time become vestiges, sustained by some improbable cause to haunt the face of the earth. Their souls are hollowed and stretched thin by this unnatural existence. They are bound to this world in agony, doomed to wander the land for all eternity.
I should feel safe. As the second headmaster of this venerable institution, I have lived in this very tower for more than half my life and it has so far withstood all sorts of disasters including a particularly nasty tornado that carved a massive chunk out of the local town. But as much as it is a home it is also my prison. During the school year, this is not as readily apparent as I am surrounded by my staff, good wholesome educators whom I entrust with the duty of raising our students into capable warriors and intellectuals. It is when the school year comes to a close that everybody departs. The students are the first to leave followed by the staff and finally maintenance workers. That leaves me here alone in my room on the top floor of this gargantuan tower. Granted it is not as if the entire Academy is abandoned. About five to ten administrative mainstays reside here all throughout the year but they tend to stay put in their own offices. My sole companions within this the month span of this grueling recess are the piles of paperwork that come flooding in whenever people flood out. Sometimes I am fortunate enough to be visited by Glynda who brings paperwork and little conversation. But all that is inconsequential.
"Ozpin," someone once again brings up my moniker. It is a harsh voice, strained by years of winters without heat in the damp apartments by the shore. It is a voice roughened by smoke, a habit though he which kicked did not depart.
I raised my eyes from my snooze and a man flickered into view. The bearer of exciting news hopefully. Sometimes the lift is unlocked, I do forget.
"Dirty Don," I exclaim recognizing the figure. "You didn't lose the keys!" He raises and jangles his chain in the air, hundreds of different keys dangle down.
"You need them?"
"One of the new admins has been griping all week." I take a stack of unopened letters and chuck them onto the ground for good effect. Don tenses up immediately and his left eyelid twitches at the sight of an unkempt floor.
"Why don't you fire his ass." He says looking downward.
"I would," I whine, "but I afraid he's a government lackey. Radiates incompetence- you know how they are."
"Nepotism." He says bluntly.
I clap excitedly, "Exactly, add money and a healthy dose of blackmail and you got yourself a fresh head of council - Ward T. Dome"
Don chuckled, "What kind of dumb ass name is that?"
And it was true, the rather threadbare reality that in spite of all the clamor and rapport towards democracy, elected leaders, you still got oafs like Ward on the high seat and for good reason. If he isn't sitting there with a thumb up his ass, his buddies are there signing, raiding the national coffers or getting paid by big companies for laws that let them screw up the dreams of every working-class hero. It's bleak life out there and what about the yearly elections? Have you ever seen a ballot? The first thing it even asks you to answer is "Do you support the United Democratic-Republican Party of Vale", and once you're done with that it asks, "do you support any other organizations", from there-on it has the audacity to let you write in whoever the hell you want. I heard Pumpkin Patch Pete was one of the recurring write-in candidates and it is a damn lot more appealing to have a stupid rabbit as your national leader than a man without half a brain.
Don has now picked up the letters from the ground. He shuffles them around carefully and opens the first one.
"Well, you weren't wrong." He tosses it into the trash and sets the remainder back onto the table. "He must be a pain to deal with."
"No, not really. He was fine when he was doped up but now that he can't get to his stash he's out for my neck." I fall flat on the ebony grain once again, "There's really nothing I can do about him, just make him another set and hope he shuts the hell up." My eyes close and press against the spectacles.
"Oscar," this time the same person brings up my name. I scowl and give him the eye. "Still here?"
"I got something for you." He pulls from his satchel a frayed book and a few trinkets which he sets before my sight. I blink for a moment before I am brought back to my senses.
"You went out on an excavation didn't you!" I run a finger over the dusty trinkets, "This was everything?"
"Yeah," he wipes his forehead with his palm, "A whole lot of digging under the sun for nothing."
"Ah be glad Don, I could have had you cleaning throughout the summer." He shrugs as I examine the trinkets more intently. An ivory figurine and a worn old cross two centuries late to be of relevance. I cast them aside. "At best we can broker a considerable sum."
"Oobleck might like them."
I agreed with Don, "But the history he goes on and on about, it may be good and all for him but I find it to be rather redundant." My eyes face the ceiling and my arms dangle like the keys on Don's belt.
Don reaches forward and removes the trinkets from my desk.
"He's on vacation," I tell him.
"Where?"
I shrug and the matter is settled. The trinkets are now hidden inside the satchel but the book lies tattered on the desk.
"Not part of the set?" I ask him and he reaches forward for the book.
"This," Don says his hands on the cover, "this keeps alive the spirit of application month." He raps on the cover and a cloud of dust rises up into my face. Don continues,"Couldn't find the kid you wanted but passed by where he used to live." With two fingers he pushes the book to me.
My hands are now cradled in the book. I lift it upwards onto the light, the leather has already faded and the pages are tinted yellow.
"How did you find it?"
He revealed a yellow smile, "Bought it from the mayor. The snake tried passing it off as some priceless pre-war diary, but once I showed him the cash he turned to jello."
But Don's voice was now melting into the background as my thin hands turned the cover and landed on the first page. No lines, just ink written in nice clear rows. Simple print but yellowed beyond its date, a result no doubt achieved through the staining of some concoction. From the first words, it kicked off without delay.
A is for aspen like the aspen grove that grows to the west of the picnic hill.
I laughed. "This feels like a kid all right."
Don grunted. "It's mostly rubbish until you get to the eleventh page."
"Here?" I skim down the row.
My name is George Blah blah Monroe… White Plains… Grandpa fought in the war... It doesn't bother me too much... Guns, guns, guns, gun catalog… target practice… Old Comstock more than 100 years ago, hanging naked from a tree.
I snickered. "This is his kid?"
"Likely, unless the mayor is right and this is indeed something pre-war-"
"God, he was dull." I referenced George's father,"This kid, he may not be much but at
least he has some fire." I flip back to the start of the narrative and keep my thumb rested on the page.
"So I guess you like this then." I look at Don and he stares back and we lock stares to the point where it becomes uncomfortable.
"Why the hell are you still here?" I ask.
He looks from side to side in a rush. He soon realizes the strange intimacy of the situation and begins to laugh wildly.
"Get the hell out and don't come back until you get that lapdog to shut up about his key." I slap the table and Don leaves through the lift. The doors open and he vanishes soon after. Now the room has quieted and the unsettling echoes come back. I am alone, with myself and a new book for company.
It is late at night and my nose is close enough to the page where it would be able to be stained with either fresh ink or graphite. The book switches between the two and it is fortunate enough that the writer had a heavy hand for although significantly duller from age, most of the words are at minimal legible.
Sconces in the room equipped with candles are the primary source of light at night. It is an antiquated practice given the long availability of electrical light since the mass proliferation of dust technology, but it was a tradition of the old headmaster and one that I find little reason to oppose. The wax melts slow enough to last more than one night, and the light is dim but not so dim that I can hardly read the text.
My eyes strain to read the text. Another night passes and another night passes. A year passes in six hours and I have reached the middle where he has realized that his pages are limited as his text has begun to shrink. All this obsessive spontaneity from a child. I repeat, my eyes are strained but I still manage to persevere. I find a page to fall asleep on and ponder over his previous entries.
There are the good days and there are the bad days. You don't want to forget any of them. One day you have the time of your life and a few days later you're wondering what made you so happy in the first place. The hills are a real nice place for a picnic or something except folks usually don't picnic there. Picnicking is something nice young folks do but the problem is there aren't any young folks here, at least not anymore. Grandpa says they took North long ago, before I was born. All that's left is a couple of older fellows and kids that haven't grown up. Then you get those poor fellows, springing up like rabbits around the place. I seen some of them, they're quiet folk, don't have a mean streak, I can't judge if they're honest or not because they stay out of way most of the time. Besides they don't time for picnics, they're always on their knees digging or plowing - for all I know they could be rabbits. But like I said the hills are a nice place, the perimeter of our town. Past the hills you get the forest that goes on for miles and miles and climbs up into the mountains. The forest is where I play most of the time, grandpa's service rifle in my hands as I walk under that cool shade searching for signs of life. A few times in my memory I've seen some figure sitting on one of the distant hills, bright white, real comfortably nuzzled. I think it's a girl or a woman, sometimes she lowers her hood, parts her cloak, her clothes underneath are significantly darker. Every time I see her she stares at me. She sits far but I feel her, her eyes following my every step. She would hold her hand and grasp her chin and frown as if she was in deep thought. I don't have any idea of what she wanted, I never drew close.
But her hands were now reaching into the darkness and warmth had disappeared with the caress of her pallid thumb over the nape of my neck. Her voice luscious as ever, steely, probing; she sought to conquer not me, but beyond, for what was hidden behind the mask that would not lower at the request of the aggressor. So she peeled it herself, her fingers working at the seams, working to separate spirit from soul. Though I could not see her hand lowering, a voice screamed as it approached. In the piercing racket, she lowered her hand, her hand settled. Eardrums could shatter at this pitch.
There is now a full set of chess before me, and I frown at the layout without much thought. A set of pawns and a single King on both sides. A king, a king. Oz you're the king aren't you? What a compliment, I always thought that the king was the most useless piece on the board, checkmate. What about a pawn? Marginally, the thing is the rules say that when a pawn reaches the other side of the board it gets the opportunity to become any piece of your choosing so while it may be pitiful for the majority of the round, the right move or a forgetful eye and a few steps later you have to contend with two queens or a multitude of knights. Regardless, this is a matter of little concern.
"Sir," a strange man approaches my desk. Paperwork growing to the height of mountains exists on this dark table. A streak of wax now lies were there was once yellow. I ignore him and he looks around the stacks.
"Sir," His mustache twitches erratically, "What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?" I respond without giving him the courtesy of an eye. To hell with the rules, a pawn skids all the way across the board and strikes down a bishop.
"Why you!" he clenches his fist but he realizes his place. "I'll have Glynda hear of this immediately!" He turns and stomps his way out of the room. As the elevator doors close I take a piece from the board and fling it towards the ground after his step. Another and another until the stack grows, a pile of beaten soldiers rolling around on a cold marble ground. One queen for each side, eight pawns. In a way a pawn was better than a bishop or a rook, knights were slightly different. Anything a rook or bishop could do a queen could do better. What was better to be born on this earth with an apparent purpose or to possess the ability to achieve greatness from a level that was once obsolete? The lower academies were great and all, but aside from the truly elite how many achieve true success or useful pieces? This is a war of minutes, of seconds. Ideally, the more would be the merrier though massive disparity does exist between the talented and the inferior. Should we choose the bishop or the rook, whose duties the queen performs better? The erratic knight, or the lowly pawn whose reward at the end of its peril is to become a queen? This is what Glynda doesn't understand, potential, she is blind to it. Take Qrow for instance-
The elevator draws open and Glynda walks in. I know it is her by the way her heels pound furiously at the marble, no one else can replicate that military pace in the set of six-inch heels she wears to tower over everyone else. She can remove her glasses, her cape, change her entire look, but her height, it is absolutely defining.
I know it is her and her shadow now looms over me as I remain buried into my own game. An inconsequential brawl as pieces collide into each other, the sound of a banging wood block, but soon all of this is disturbed. The board lifts into the air, along with my pieces. Above my head, it levitates. My hands reach up, it is here when my eyes first meet hers, green as acid. I laugh wholeheartedly at something she will never understand.
"Why Ms. Goodwitch, good to see you. How have your holidays been?"
"Passable." She replies fiercely.
"Something wrong? You sound so glum." I say. I know why she is angry but her fury is the least of my concerns. She has to see, she must.
"Why did you dispose of all the category B and C applications."
"You want to know why? I'll tell you why!" I stand up from my seat just as the chessboard falls and storm around the room exasperation pinches at my voice. "It's the idiocy of it all." I kick aside a pawn lying on the floor and grab a book on the shelf. I flip through its pages.
"Idiocy? Does it seem intelligent to deprive our school of over half its potential applicants-"
I take the book and throw it to the ground with all my might. "You don't get it!" I shout. It is a strange look, the veins on my pristine look budge little, my face is as pale as it is ever.
"Ozpin!" She says raising her voice.
My body is shaking. I cannot tell her about that night, no one else can hear.
"You are an adult, the headmaster of this venerable school and you, you're behaving like a toddler!" She scorns me, her lips are curled in disgust.
"Damn this school," I collapse onto the ground and press against the wall. "This entire world's going to war, what have we done?" I look at the window that radiates the afternoon light. The light is blinding and I turn away. "Who have we raised for the fight, anyone?"
"Last year we had a graduating class of exactly seventy-"
"But Glynda," I plead from the floor, "We aren't, we aren't fighting a war against Grimm, we're fighting a war against people."
"And the enemy holds control over the Grimm."
"But they don't. They really don't." I sigh, "All these years we've been teaching all the wrong things, telling all of them lies, the government. For all these years we've been the government's bitch." Glynda frowns at my use of the word. "When our students look to the war and realize everything isn't white or black but shades of in between how will they respond?" Glynda remains by the table.
"They should already know that."
"Oh, but do they? Virtue, duty, honor, pah!" I draw up my legs and throw my arms around them. I look at the wall beside, "Do you remember the fabled team?"
"Yes," she answers.
"The one with Summer, Raven, Qrow, Taiyang. What happened to them?" I said, "All that potential and raw ability and look what has happened to them now." I shook my head. "We were stupid, we thought that that team of four could take down whoever the enemy threw at us but before the battle even begun they broke." I let out a bitter laugh. Visions of their troubled past flow over my mind now and I shudder. Glynda knows what I am talking about, I can only hope that she understands.
I continue, "If they, some of the most talented kids of their generation couldn't handle all that responsibility, then who can we trust? Oh, you might have gotten good marks in school but do you have it? The "it" that I am talking about?" It is draining, all I can do is lean back and sigh. I am withered, if my actions portray my vulnerability it is only fortunate that my looks do not. I am still as composed and fortuitous as I am ever. I stand up from my state of misery and draw up back to my full height. Glynda, I think she has caught on as she is holding her head.
"No," she says, "We can't do this."
I walk towards her. "Aside from top tier talent, it's all hit and miss." And it's true. Nothing else has indicated anything different. The margin of improvement exhibited when students attend Beacon is minimal. The knowledge we teach, much of it is fake and much of it is used nowhere else. To huntsmen, instinct is invaluable, knowledge while important is too easily manipulated and forsaken in favor of instinct. We teach our children what to fight rather than how to fight and that is where the trouble starts.
I look back sometimes to that picture of the fabled team that I keep on my desk, and to the walking cane in my possession which was not inherited from the previous master of this school. They were an experiment, created by an older generation reeling from the effects of the war. It was an experiment that failed along with countless others before them. There was only the true bloodline of which I saw any semblance of success, but before I could approach they were always taken away and murdered. But now the chosen was within my reach, the few that knew of it spoke little or were long dead.
Who was the chosen? For generations, I had traced the blood of the chosen until I sourced it to the veins of the King himself. But he died and so did his family until it was from the mouth of one of the maidens that admitted their hand, their involvement. It was to protect the young, you see, the young prince that had nearly perished.
I tell Glynda to keep a close eye on the young ones especially the youngest child of the tarnished Dragon. There are all compromises we have to make. I comply with Glynda's demand to accept the applications of a select few from the Category C and B candidate pools and to fill up a quota of at least a hundred. Those of the special category, all of them will be admitted through Glynda has some concerns over a few of them. She is reasonable in her assessment but she is wrong. One of them, Jaune he was the descendant of one of my close friends and I trust his bloodline. Those that bear his name, they entitled to a spot at this school regardless.
But Glynda is still reluctant. She holds a copy of his papers up to face, "Look at his application and tell me, do you trust someone like this in our school?"
I am seated now, we are both seated and I remind her of his direct relation, of his sister who we all salivated over but could not get. It is true that he has cheated, but his relation to the general holds precedence over his feeble attempt to cheat the system. I will not tell him of his innocence. He will arrive at school bearing guilt, and it is from this guilt that hopes the best in him awakens. "There something off about the place they live in," I say, "Something off about their family." Although I mention him it was named the old imposter, the daughter's groom that bore the name of Arc. I hope Glynda is sympathetic to boy despite his dilemma and his incompetence but her words bear little weight to my decision. I have the final say and who am I to oppose the wishes of the old headmaster?
The man that went by the name of Arc, the disgraced champion, the general that futilely attempted to a precedence for a true republic. He was one of the old headmaster's friends, and he perished a decade after the signing of the treaty of Vytal. I saw him knew him vaguely in his last years though I recall meeting him at a big banquet many years ago.
It was an envelope that I received from the postman. One that I opened to find a letter, a seal, and an order for a suit. You have to dress up to standards it read and I being the poorest peacock on the street jumped at this opportunity. An exquisite banquet, I accepted the offer heartily not wondering who my benefactor was. I did not recognize his name.
I was leaned against the railing bloated, spitting out yellow bits of chutney relish into the unsuspecting bushes below. My attention had been focused on a gaggle of girls, though as my stomach churned that endeavor flew out the window. I avoided them, stumbled around and fell upon the railing. They weren't committed in the first place. With no voice of concern, their subject matter changed immediately to the boorish foreigner that had passed just seconds ago. Strong and grappling, there was something about his physique and his thick tone that made them squeal after him. I suppose the symptoms of being young and of dainty pulsing heat caused the girls to naturally seek his coarse tone. I know little of what happened to the next, and it matters little as they were nothing more than a set of pretty faces in a crowd. And even then there were more pressing matters for concern. The banquet moved to its grand stage, a dinner which my troubled stomach was clearly empty enough for. Still, I had yet to meet my benefactor who was kind enough to pay for my suit and it was only then that the sensation of curiosity began to arrive.
I saw the foreign man, surprisingly seated at the front of the crowd, dark as he was ever though clearer in the light. The part not covered by his black and white vest glowed copper red as he stood beside the imposter and his wife whose arm was jostled by a white-haired fellow with twinkling eyes who whispers identified as the general. The man beside the general, at the center of the hall, was the headmaster of the new school.
The headmaster spoke in a low voice as if he was afflicted by some matter of concern. "I invited one of my favorite performers for the delight of you all, but he seems to have not arrived. He usually wears rags but I have paid for his suit and now he must blend in with the rest of you." He looked around, "If anyone sees him, please tell him to come up." There was as swivel of heads. No one seemed to locate anyone. I started blushed furiously and covered my face with the dinner cloth. "This boy, he goes by the name of-"
The old man had seemed familiar. I recognized him as the man I had met on the street. He didn't need to talk any further. It was I who he wanted, I now knew. I stood up from the bumbling mass and raised up my arm. The crowd laughed seeing my bumbling approach assuming it was a part of my antics. His white head turned at the sound of laughter joined in.
"You see this boy? He has one of the most delightful acts I have ever seen."
And to him I performed. I remember it barely, but there was a rousing cheer.
In my life, there were those that I felt attached to more than others. He was one of them. I wondered why I had forgotten him until my darkest moment but now that I could see him again I was glad. I was nobody. He was the rising sun, the light that cast away the shadows and thawed ice. I was his vassal, my purpose to revitalize his deed. His vision flickered away but the little embers that had almost been snuffed glowed hot once more. The specter relinquished her grasp. It snarled as it convulsed and stumbled. I rose from my weakened state roles now reversed. The words were in my mouth, I condemned her. The image of him standing on that hill passed by once more, now I was surer than ever.
"But perhaps victory is in the simpler things that you've long forgotten," I said, a new sense of clarity rejuvenating my emaciated soul, "Things that require a smaller, more honest soul." And the one man on the cliff, the soul of that man burned hotter than a coal iron as I watched his gleaming eyes from afar. Something from an age long past had begun to awaken. A sensation, a power that had long been buried. Salem trembled and the gave into her weakness. Her specter screamed in agony and collapsed onto the marble. The entire room was now shaking as her the veins on her arms glowed red and orange.
"A smaller, more honest soul," she laughed her eyes wild from pain, her dark eyes grew vacant and her nails dug into her hands. From where they bore, a dark fluid pooled in her palm. She regained fleeting focus, "It's true that a simple spark can ignite hope, breathe fire into the hearts of the weary." She said blood trickling, "The ability to derive strength from hope is undoubtedly mankind's greatest attribute." She stared down at the puddle that was beginning to form in her palm. Streaks of blood dribbled down her arm. On the ground, it frothed and evaporated unable to form anything substantial. She groaned."Which is why I will focus all of my power... to snuff it out." She let out a final cackle as her form exploded into blinding light, a surge of energy that rushed out and rippled throughout the top floor of the tower.
The entity known as Salem had gone, her specter vanquished. The sconce shattered spilling the candle and its wax onto the floor. My eyes were failing. The sun was setting on his face, a face that I had tried to grasp, all these years. Darkness was now flooding in. The pain was familiar. I had died, once again.
I stood on the balcony, dark arms pressed against the rusted railing facing the storefront. The river, gray as a tomb, crawling with plastic and sewage from the glistening skyline across. The smokestacks channeled coal dust into the air and ashes fell from the sunless sky. An old vagrant was stretched out on the street, his body long cold in his ragged duster waiting for the arrival of the coroner. A barking dog, a gunshot, a siren. I closed my eyes. This was my hell.