Rain
I think maybe a part of me remembers what sunlight looks like.
I keep that part locked away with the part of me that wants to smirk when Dorothy plays the piano, with the part of me who wanted so very badly to stroke fingers through Perot's fur. Dorothy doesn't understand. She doesn't understand why I have my rules, why everything is strictly maintained, why everyone must wear black.
What does Dorothy consider a nice thing? That expensive red dress she wore to the club-was that nice? Did she treasure that? Did she perhaps treasure the look on her "father's" face when he heard her sing?
Perhaps they both understood at the sound of the gun, when the old man crumbled to the ground like the statue of some forgotten god whose name would forever be lost in the annals of history. As the light in his eyes went out, as he looked upon her for the last time, I am sure he understood.
Perhaps even Soldano understood. I wonder how many people have died with Dorothy being the last thing they saw.
"It's all right...Nightingale."
They knew. They knew why uniforms must be black, and beautiful girls must be spoken to curtly, and all piano music must cease.
It's raining. It dusts the city as I watch from above, the annoying kind of rain, too hard to be a drizzle, too soft to be a storm. I understand how some people can just stand in the rain without an umbrella. I should understand better than anyone; that's what I do.
Umbrellas, protection-those things are luxury. Nice things are always luxury. And nice things can be taken away-by a gunshot, by a madman, by a metal god. It's better not to have nice things, so you don't get hurt when they're taken away from you.
And they are taken. That's what Dorothy doesn't understand. Fathers and daughters, flowers and kittens die, and so do we. She will never understand, she who can never die.
A few sopping black forelocks fall into my eyes, pricking. I make no move to sweep them away. Pain is good. Life is pain. Why brush them back? They'll fall again.
I remember the look on Beck's face. He who would take her away. And I raged against that, fought to keep her.
When was the last time I fought to keep something?
So many things taken away, and I let them all go. My memories, my smile, everything. But this thing I would not give. This thing I fought for, leapt at him like a tiger and rolled him to the ground, would bleed and die to keep this thing. Why? Why do I want her?
Part of me wanted to smile when she dressed that kitten in that little black suit, holding the carrier carefully so as not to jar her little passenger. For a second I could feel how to do it, how to smile at her.
My memories. For scattered seconds I had them back; dreams, flashbacks, fragments. For a second I remembered sunlight, and my mother's face, only to wake up and see Dorothy, watching me like a sentinel, a graveyard-shift policeman, a marble angel in a graveyard no one visits.
Will I be like the others? Will I lie on the cold ground, the light leaving my eyes, and look to her as my last sight? Will I die looking at her, knowing it's the end, and she will eventually walk away?
Would she even care? Would I be one more nice thing, something she had that was taken away? Does she even think like that?
Why do I even care if she cares?
I'm soaked, chilled to the bone, possessed by a cold only I can feel. A shiver passes through me, and then a new thought.
Would that be so bad? If she were the last thing I ever saw? She is almost poetic in the horror of her situation, never to grow old, never to die. She would be a...nice thing...to look upon in death, something beautiful, something perfect.
I blink. That would be nice. And it could never be taken away.
I look once more upon the city, and I suddenly can't feel the rain anymore. I shift my eyes above and see the reason why-the spokes of a black umbrella, shielding me from the storm. I turn from the balcony wall and see her standing there, rain slowly soaking her halo of red hair, her black dress, because she's holding her umbrella over me. She says nothing. She might as well be made of stone.
But I suddenly don't need to remember what sunlight looks like. I can see it, dancing, in the depths of her black eyes.
**********
I stood in the rain for two hours on the last morning of finals, feeling rather like Perot as I huddled in the meager shelter of Blockbuster Video's walls, waiting for a bus. I began this story later that day. It's finally finished and feedback is craved. Please be constructive; that's Serena's rule number one.
I think maybe a part of me remembers what sunlight looks like.
I keep that part locked away with the part of me that wants to smirk when Dorothy plays the piano, with the part of me who wanted so very badly to stroke fingers through Perot's fur. Dorothy doesn't understand. She doesn't understand why I have my rules, why everything is strictly maintained, why everyone must wear black.
What does Dorothy consider a nice thing? That expensive red dress she wore to the club-was that nice? Did she treasure that? Did she perhaps treasure the look on her "father's" face when he heard her sing?
Perhaps they both understood at the sound of the gun, when the old man crumbled to the ground like the statue of some forgotten god whose name would forever be lost in the annals of history. As the light in his eyes went out, as he looked upon her for the last time, I am sure he understood.
Perhaps even Soldano understood. I wonder how many people have died with Dorothy being the last thing they saw.
"It's all right...Nightingale."
They knew. They knew why uniforms must be black, and beautiful girls must be spoken to curtly, and all piano music must cease.
It's raining. It dusts the city as I watch from above, the annoying kind of rain, too hard to be a drizzle, too soft to be a storm. I understand how some people can just stand in the rain without an umbrella. I should understand better than anyone; that's what I do.
Umbrellas, protection-those things are luxury. Nice things are always luxury. And nice things can be taken away-by a gunshot, by a madman, by a metal god. It's better not to have nice things, so you don't get hurt when they're taken away from you.
And they are taken. That's what Dorothy doesn't understand. Fathers and daughters, flowers and kittens die, and so do we. She will never understand, she who can never die.
A few sopping black forelocks fall into my eyes, pricking. I make no move to sweep them away. Pain is good. Life is pain. Why brush them back? They'll fall again.
I remember the look on Beck's face. He who would take her away. And I raged against that, fought to keep her.
When was the last time I fought to keep something?
So many things taken away, and I let them all go. My memories, my smile, everything. But this thing I would not give. This thing I fought for, leapt at him like a tiger and rolled him to the ground, would bleed and die to keep this thing. Why? Why do I want her?
Part of me wanted to smile when she dressed that kitten in that little black suit, holding the carrier carefully so as not to jar her little passenger. For a second I could feel how to do it, how to smile at her.
My memories. For scattered seconds I had them back; dreams, flashbacks, fragments. For a second I remembered sunlight, and my mother's face, only to wake up and see Dorothy, watching me like a sentinel, a graveyard-shift policeman, a marble angel in a graveyard no one visits.
Will I be like the others? Will I lie on the cold ground, the light leaving my eyes, and look to her as my last sight? Will I die looking at her, knowing it's the end, and she will eventually walk away?
Would she even care? Would I be one more nice thing, something she had that was taken away? Does she even think like that?
Why do I even care if she cares?
I'm soaked, chilled to the bone, possessed by a cold only I can feel. A shiver passes through me, and then a new thought.
Would that be so bad? If she were the last thing I ever saw? She is almost poetic in the horror of her situation, never to grow old, never to die. She would be a...nice thing...to look upon in death, something beautiful, something perfect.
I blink. That would be nice. And it could never be taken away.
I look once more upon the city, and I suddenly can't feel the rain anymore. I shift my eyes above and see the reason why-the spokes of a black umbrella, shielding me from the storm. I turn from the balcony wall and see her standing there, rain slowly soaking her halo of red hair, her black dress, because she's holding her umbrella over me. She says nothing. She might as well be made of stone.
But I suddenly don't need to remember what sunlight looks like. I can see it, dancing, in the depths of her black eyes.
**********
I stood in the rain for two hours on the last morning of finals, feeling rather like Perot as I huddled in the meager shelter of Blockbuster Video's walls, waiting for a bus. I began this story later that day. It's finally finished and feedback is craved. Please be constructive; that's Serena's rule number one.