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Of Moonlight and Shadows
p.e.n.u.l.t.i.m.a
i had a choice. could have let him live. could have abandoned the darkness, could have escaped, could have been right for once.
how could i? how could i?
There is a boy sitting on the floor, straight-backed, still-faced, gaze directed outside the window. His eyes blink every so often, and his body rises and falls gently with each breath. Otherwise there was no proof he was more than simply a delicately created statue.
His eyes reflect the gentle moonlight that filters through the translucent panes, casting an ethereal light on his motionless figure, pooling in the creases of his clothes and the fine features of his wearied face. The face of youth that has lost innocence, lost the hope that separates a live man with those of the dead.
The moon casts moon-water on his hair, slick and gentle like water on his neat fair locks. His eyes are locked upon the window, where the moon hangs by heavenly threads and the stars twinkle like minute diamonds spread out on a velvet tray. His mind, though, strays elsewhere.
i had a choice. could have run, could have hidden, could have accepted the hand offered to me but I surrendered to the shadows that i knew would not spare me from the ultimate end. would not show me mercy. would not keep me.
would not save me.
Now he tears his distracted eyes away from the window and at his hands, limp and still on his lap. He watches shadows darken the moonlight on the grooves of his lifelines like night that arrives like a wispy smoke as a cloud floats lazily by outside. And to him it is like the darkness that descends upon his heart, seethes through the pores on his skin and poisons his blood, turning him the color of shadows; inside and out.
so betrayed and so broken and enraged. so, so angry at me for what i beg desperately to believe i didn't do.
could you ever find it in your hearts to forgive me?
His mouth curls into a bitter frown. He looks away from the light and distracts himself with the darkness that occupies the rest of the room. It struck him to notice the light shone on some and completely blotted out the rest.
If that was the way of the world, where did he stand?
blessed with conscience and tortured by fate. does the light shine on me or does the darkness rule me?
He shuffles in discomfort, and then his eyes are drawn to his left arm, where the sleeve has slid upwards from his movement, and keeps his gaze, frightfully, loathingly, on the mark that adorns his smooth skin. He yanks his sleeve upwards, and draws the emblem of darkness into the light.
He ignores the pain on his fingers as his other hand traces the blackened skin. The mark was hideous; it looked like rotting skin to him, black and charred and dead. But it was dark and glorious in the history that it left its print on; in indelible ink that will never, ever, wear away.
marked, scarred, stained and tormented for life.
is this what I have come to?
And with that thought he feels his own strength leave him, his thoughts squeezing him dry, his heartbeat wasting him away with each tormenting moment. He collects his hands towards his chest and bends, bows, folding himself away from the light, from the darkness, back rounded, face turned away from whatever was there.
Defeated by his own thoughts and tormented by his own decisions. He remains on the floor, bowing in surrender to the shadows that consume him, bowing and begging mercy to the light that threatens to abandon him. Broken and deserted of all hopes, knowing there will be no escape from where he stands.
Always torn and divided between the light and the darkness of his own heart.