Darkness.
So full, so tangible, and yet at the same time so empty. I spent half my life in near total blackness, and preferred it to the light. In light, everything was open, naked, baring itself to the world. The dark was closed off, smaller, more personal. It could swallow you whole without moving, claim you as one of it's children. Darkness lets your imagination soar, lets fear into your body to invade. Weak people didn't survive in the dark.
Maybe that's why he liked it better? Even with electricity and candles, he preferred to sit in the dark, to let it hide him so he could watch the world around him unhindered. He could be anyone in the dark, unseen, unnoticed. But I saw. I felt. I knew him. While the world went by not seeing him, I ventured past the shadows and found him, and while he never gave himself over fully, I knew it was a good as anyone was going to get.
It's different now. He still sits in the shadows watching, but he's different. Instead of letting it hide him... he's hiding. Alone. From the world and its temptations. From the tormenting presence of his thoughts. He says it helps, the darkness, like a friend it blankets him. Muffles the cries and the taunts and the faces. So many faces.
I shudder, unable to comprehend, unwilling to go down that dark alley into his past. So many deaths, so many screams, so much blood. The word echo's forever when the light leaves, his soft lips mumbling it over and over, spilling from his mouth like an endless waterfall. So much blood. But he cries to no one. He says he's coated with it. He can't ever be rid of it. In the dark, in the pitch blackness that consumes, it doesn't seem as thick. He can't see it, so his imagination, which knows no fear, thins the blood surrounding him. But it's always there, burning into his soul.
I can't leave him. The softness of his sobbing filters through the empty house, through the darkened passageways and straight into my heart. I did this to him. Guilt found it's way in, creeping through the shadows and settling itself over my black heart. It's my fault he hides in the shadows, the weight of thousands of deaths on his shoulders, letting the darkness consume him.
And so I went to him, ignoring the empty abyss on either side of me, determined to help him. I miss the blue of his eyes, the tilt of his head, the sharp curve of his cheekbones. The night has robbed me of that view. And there he is, huddled in his corner, tears streaking down his cheeks. Endless tears. But with me, clutched in my hand, I bring light. And suddenly he see's....he is not alone.
So full, so tangible, and yet at the same time so empty. I spent half my life in near total blackness, and preferred it to the light. In light, everything was open, naked, baring itself to the world. The dark was closed off, smaller, more personal. It could swallow you whole without moving, claim you as one of it's children. Darkness lets your imagination soar, lets fear into your body to invade. Weak people didn't survive in the dark.
Maybe that's why he liked it better? Even with electricity and candles, he preferred to sit in the dark, to let it hide him so he could watch the world around him unhindered. He could be anyone in the dark, unseen, unnoticed. But I saw. I felt. I knew him. While the world went by not seeing him, I ventured past the shadows and found him, and while he never gave himself over fully, I knew it was a good as anyone was going to get.
It's different now. He still sits in the shadows watching, but he's different. Instead of letting it hide him... he's hiding. Alone. From the world and its temptations. From the tormenting presence of his thoughts. He says it helps, the darkness, like a friend it blankets him. Muffles the cries and the taunts and the faces. So many faces.
I shudder, unable to comprehend, unwilling to go down that dark alley into his past. So many deaths, so many screams, so much blood. The word echo's forever when the light leaves, his soft lips mumbling it over and over, spilling from his mouth like an endless waterfall. So much blood. But he cries to no one. He says he's coated with it. He can't ever be rid of it. In the dark, in the pitch blackness that consumes, it doesn't seem as thick. He can't see it, so his imagination, which knows no fear, thins the blood surrounding him. But it's always there, burning into his soul.
I can't leave him. The softness of his sobbing filters through the empty house, through the darkened passageways and straight into my heart. I did this to him. Guilt found it's way in, creeping through the shadows and settling itself over my black heart. It's my fault he hides in the shadows, the weight of thousands of deaths on his shoulders, letting the darkness consume him.
And so I went to him, ignoring the empty abyss on either side of me, determined to help him. I miss the blue of his eyes, the tilt of his head, the sharp curve of his cheekbones. The night has robbed me of that view. And there he is, huddled in his corner, tears streaking down his cheeks. Endless tears. But with me, clutched in my hand, I bring light. And suddenly he see's....he is not alone.