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Wind's Cries
Wind is such a contrary thing.
The gentle breeze can bring comfort. It seduces us by embracing pain in a sweet caress, and blowing it away to foreign lands for others to suffer through. There are memories that glow distantly in my mind of the laughing wind, a beautiful silver melody as it toys with branches and sweeps up the snow in a swirling, feverish dance.
I wish it would play with me again, but by some twist of fate I have dropped in its regard. Life has changed something fundamental within me, and the day I lost my childhood I reached out for it, desperate for something that would not wither and die as soon as I had touched it. So I stood in the highest place I could find, and waited for my friend. But wind was angry with me then. It crashed into my body with wild frenzy, pushing me down while it howled in my ears. It has wanted nothing of me since then.
It was a day much like this one, come to think of it. The snow blankets the world outside, temporarily erasing whatever troubles exist. Today the wind has brought me something, a vision perhaps, a painfully beautiful specter which will undeniably crash into a thousand pieces as soon as I try to touch it. She must want for death, this one, for she pursues me all the more each time I urge her away. I cannot keep her; and thus wind blows her my way to tempt whatever resolve there is left within me.
She has sought me out and stands quietly in the doorframe, a gust of wind blowing her hair and covering her face, which is further obscured by the way her head is bent in an uncharacteristically defeated manner. The cold from outside enters through the open door of the small abandoned shack I stay in at the moment, sending ripples of gooseflesh up her arms.
Now I notice the rest of her appearance; she has forgotten a coat and so her dress is soaked and torn at the hem. The wild wind has tangled her long hair and a few lone snowflakes rest upon her head; glittering like a crown of diamonds in the dim light. She must be shivering from the cold outside.
No. Not shivering -shaking. She lifts her head and I see the crystalline tears pouring down her face and neck, for she doesn't bother to wipe them away. Her convulsions aren't from the frost, but from the sobs that rack her body. Finally she whispers bitterly,
"He's dead. My father. Dead. I loved him, and now..." she trailed off before choking out, "Dead."
Her voice cracks as she continues, "You know, I'm not used to having people hate me. He used to say how no one could hate his little princess."
She looks up, directly at me, and each word is punctuated with force.
"So now I've come to prove him wrong. My first encounter with true sadness and look who I run to." She laughs bitterly before breaking down completely. "You." Her legs give out and she crumples to the floor, covering her mouth to suffocate the rising sobs. In between desperate gasps for air, she finishes.
"Why do hate me, Heero? I don't want anyone to hate me, and I don't want to be alone." She screams out again, and the wind shrieks a loud howl to accompany her.
"Why do you hate me?" Through all of this I have been sitting on the bed across from her. My limbs have ceased to obey me and of their own volition they propel me towards the huddled figure on the floor.
Why am I doing this?
Closing the door, I reach out and touch her shoulder for the first time. The reaction is immediate. She jerks her head up and looks at me like a frightened child. Gently, I pick her up and set her on the bed, almost afraid that any sudden movement will break her in two. She must be cold, and so I take the old blanket from the foot of my bed and wrap it around her as delicately as possible.
The expression on her face tells me she doesn't really understand why I'm doing this. A long time ago I was told to act on my emotions; I'm going to take that advice now.
Putting a finger to my lips in a gesture for silence, I whisper, "Listen." Refusing to look up at me she replies stubbornly "All I hear is the wind."
"Exactly. LISTEN."
The wind rises and falls, echoing through the fields outside and then subsiding into low whimpers, singing the sweet, age-old melody that it always has. The cries of a thousand lost souls are reflected in its song.
The shuddering girl on my bed slowly begins calm as she cocks her head to one side. Finally she whispers, "There is so much suffering in the world. It's sort of like it's crying for us isn't it?"
I nod.
Outside the wind is still crying.