Authors Notes: Many Apologies to the time it has taken to update. It's been a harder year than most, filled with countless distractions and my susceptibility to them. Please enjoy

Repeat Waltz: The Third Step

This House is not a home.

"Absolute power corrupts absolutely and those who have power are unwilling to share It." -Lord Acton, 1887

He grinned.

The days crawled by as serpents slither upon the their bellies, weighed down by every force that conjured itself to arise when they appeared. Whether a great amount of time had passed or merely an hours wake, he had not the knowledge, for each second stretched itself into years, hours into millennia, and the days into some horrendous form of punishment that not even the very bowels of hell itself had yet to summon upon man. In a way, it was pleasant, the knowledge that time was taking its course, that you could not stop it for all the begging and pleading that your lips had to deliver; things were to be as they were, and in that, harmony, however strenuous, continued in place of discord.

The building in which he chose to reside was ramshackled, a drudgery to the senses, assaulting them all with the force of a great army. The 'slums' they called it, but it had always remained a questionable process to take the word of a citizen for what it was around here, for one mans slum was another's mansion, and even the mansions had little to offer when compared to the love that a peasant family had to offer in their humble abodes. It was all a kind of twisted circle. The wealthy had it all, not the moon, nor the stars, nor any body of the heavens was beyond the grasping hands that they barely had restraint to keep under control; while on the other hand, those who would never have that which false advertising promoted found happiness in unity, in others like them who shared a like compassion.

While the people had their companions, each class to its own, each dwelling to its own, there would remain some that had neither family nor enemy alike. They are the things that make you feel self-righteous when donations are taking, as though you are actually doing more than funding men's pockets when you drop in your coins to the charities. In essence, that is what leads to the forming of the city; pity, remorse, a sense of superiority to another by giving snippy offerings to people who are slightly worse off than you are. Such is humanity, a brutal display of hidden malice and prejudice.

It takes a child to see through these things, and all is lost when the children are hushed into haughty, proud, spoiled, timid, flighty creatures, ready to inflict pain at a moment notice, but fear when pain comes to them; little adults already.

Those who are considered unworthy do not take residence in the slums, but truly the 'false slums' which are tightly hidden within the steel jungle that had been forged on their backs, not those of who rule the city; history repeats itself yet again. They are the leather-skinned 'Cretans', the workhorses, the slaves of a modern society trying to revive old practices, and neither flaxen hair, height, nor any physical quality they had to offer would save them from a race's reputation.

These are the things that one sees in the night as a child. They are the supposed monsters that hide under your bed awaiting your presence to sing their woeful songs to lull you into a sleep, and in that way consume your mind with their stories that no on shall go onto tell after their passing. Sometimes they are the great apes that are rumored to live in the woods, mimicking those that they wish to be the most, walking on two feet as they always have and being accused for doing so, even hunted for their man-given abilities. An possibly, just possibly they run to the sea, scared to peek above the surface for penalty of death or whatever cruelties that can be made for an 'inhuman' who does not fit the stereotype.

The whole idea is laughable. As a wise man once said "A few drops of dirty water will not make the entire ocean dirty". Apparently such was forgotten after his passing, yet a few still hang onto the truth, taking it for face value. They are the most precious of all.

Everyone has their dreams. Some want to marry and have children, some wish to play music before great courts, while others would love to teach pupils their life lessons, and others wish to do no more than to love and be loved in return. They say animals, things that distinctly are not of the Homo Sapiens Sapiens race, are not capable of feeling the same things, having the same goals as they are, and in that, arrogance and ignorance shines its brightest, for who is to say a cat cannot feel remorse when her kittens die, or a rat cannot die of depression when removed from its family?

However, in this case, it was naught. Nothing caused this downfall; this scouring that left him feeling more befouled than before. It was as a disease, a ravaging sickness that struck at his heart, tearing it apart string by string in the very spirit of sadomasochism. Such pain is not soon forgotten and remembered in an instant. For that reason, he ran far into the concrete trees and iron-sided canyons to escape from the gentle fern and soothing waterfalls. A fair choice it was not, but when in fear, the mind does not stop to reason; it relies on instinct for guidance. Instinct can kill you.

And so here in minds eye of a had-been boy he sits, staring at the same walls that he allegedly stared at yesterday, and all the years before. The sight was not a new one; it never had been, in all honesty. Walls all look alike with your eyes closed and your deadened palms grazing them gently. That was the home he knew, the one he claimed as his own when all that beseeched it before condemned it. It was all fine, nothing was out of order. The barren walls, devoid of covering to shield its plaster frame, he paid no heed to their shape, content merely that they managed to stand night after night. In essence, that is all one can rally hope for, and in light of the success, he had no mouth to speak ill of the continuous miracle, and less of a mind to question it.

Still, it bothered him. The knowledge of what was and what he perceived. Forever it could hang upon his back as a burden of vanity, a tiny thing that increased its weight ten fold when listened to, and whose claws became ever the more insidious and vile the more you worried yourself about them. It was that pang, that miniscule thing that had slowly cracked his skull to reveal what his innermost thoughts were. People of all creeds often thought him a lunatic for wondering what exact color the walls of his dwelling were, or if the sky was really blue, even if there was a difference from smooth and slick. It was a mystery box with a lost key, kept secret, safe, locked away inside a room, stashed in the floorboards along with letters two people who never arrived home to meet them.

Nevertheless, he smiled . . .No, not smiled.

Grinned.

A storm brewed overhead, rumbling like an awakening giant ready to break his nights' fast. Brilliant flashes of lightning streaked through the sky as runners in a marathon, ready to tell the troops of victory. However, one force muted the others, proving a force of ten million to one, stronger than the gale and brighter than the light when occasion called. And so the rain came. Not in minute drops, specking the land with angel's tears, but as a mercury drape, covering the land fully, choking out life, and blinding children with acidic words, marring the youth for all eternity in is malevolence.

All those who had shelter enough as a sheet took refuge, sparing their backs for another night, another hour, regardless of the foolishness or frailty of the attempt. Those who had nothing stole away with Those that are underground as lambs to a slaughterhouse captained by vegans. Comedy was at its peak in the most dramatic of forms.

When the wind howled loud enough, the rain fought with its seven nation army, and the lightning cast itself upon earth at thunders groaning command, he would be out there, watching the symphony be composed, studying, grading, making sure that no scale was missed nor note turned sour. In that way, he kept peace with the place, being an audience, and in return, keeping a breadless life.

There were nights when the symphonies never ended, where his body would run ragged and bow to the forces that obeyed no one. In times like those, the mudded streets and gravel walkways paid homage to a battered brow and crystalline eyes that stared into oblivion itself and had yet to blink. Often he laid there for hours before moving, laying there as a fallen statue, motionless, dead to the world and its unjust prodding and poking about the acclaimed corpse of a titan.

Truly, when everyone had their say about the issue, he was free to hobble back on legs that never quite proved as strong as hoped to his own place to rest in the sleep of the near-dead until the sky's war drums sounded. He did so without complaint.

And as he did it, he grinned.

3-

His mind was reeling, a thousand thought passing though at any given instant and not a one had more than a quarter second's time to process fully and make room for the next. Without need be say, a headache was in order, and had been for the last decade and a half. Perhaps that was what had so worn him down over time. Constant fear, worrying, oh the illogical worrying that clasped his rest and peace in an iron fist, choking what life attempted to sneak by unnoticed.

Every living thing around him could see it. That slight drooping of the smile, the sad eyes, and the slope of the shoulder. In all honesty, he took the appearance of a distressed puppy, so pathetically depressed and trying not to go overboard that it was funny and had the misfortune of not being able to be enjoyed because of the nature of the sadness. Still, certain vertically challenged individuals tried on this unspoken courtesy of restraining ones mouths.

But he paid no heed to them nowadays. Life had gone so far and carried so much that the surprise was gone from everything. That was what he missed the most.

For all the glory of his heritage, the prominence of his house upon those who suffered and lived under it, even the gracious nature concealed under layers of leathery emotion and stone walls, he could not buy himself any of which he desired, even lusted over. The best efforts he put forth were not even paid for with words, but unrecognizable utterances and a series of confusing nods and shrugs.

Did He appreciate it? Would He even notice that something changed? If He did, would it even matter? Was He still mad? Mad even after all this time had passed? He probably was. It probably was not for the lack of trying that one green devil put forth, either.

"You're dozing"

Running a clawed hand over his forehead, he sighed and titled his head back, staring up at the branches of a tree most familiar. Practicing an old habit from the childhood he missed, he counted the holes in the leaves of the Maple. Though his vision had diminished ever so slightly over the years, he could still count caterpillar holes from fifteen feet up. Such was his pride today, and in that a sense of degradation.

"Hey, you're dozing off again"

Closing his eyes gently he took several meditative breaths before opening his eyes again and looking straight ahead at the city of the false and the home of the cowardly, but others knew it as Satan City. Handed many years to learn about the place, he soon figured he preferred absolute solitude to the loud streets, the loud people, and the loud, nerve-racking media. When given the choice to move in or stay in the so-called 'home', he chose the latter, for fear of a horror movie repeat.

All work and no play makes Jack a very dull boy.

A sharp punch to the shoulder awoke him instantly, bringing such a wide-eyed innocent look to his features that it was shocking.

"I thought you wanted to see me?" The voice was soft, almost angered in tone, and so familiar he needn't open his eyes to recognize the person, but all the same, the blaring sight met him head-on.

In reply, he smirked and nodded before slowly rising to the occasion, bone popping quietly as he did.

The opposing woman placed her hands on her hips and shook her head, ocean hair barely moving from its fixed position. The smile on her face was sincere, as it had been so long ago, the slight streaks of a white were barley starting to take hold, and the downward pull on her body was still yet to completely begin, thanks to the wonders money and fame had to offer.

Nodding once in a minor apology, he made an effort to return the smile, though nothing became of it.

An uncomfortable silence was between them, for one was hesitant to speak, and the other was awaiting an invitation.

The wind blew through the trees of soon-to-be-summer, tearing the weaker buds from their surrounding and in such, ending their lives. While others lived on, becoming an unappreciated beauty in comparison to the marvels that run on batteries.

He couldn't take it. "Yes. . " He paused for an moment, eyes closed, breathing halted, organizing his entire year's problems into three simple words. "How much longer?"

Her lips parted slightly, head shifting to the side, but she dare not shake it. Brow raising in light of the bluntness, she took several steps back, rebounding on a heel to make them up again and stand stronger than she had before. Still, she to paused, bit her lip, and questioned her very answer. Was the truth really the best answer? Could a lie soften the blow? No. .It anything, it would cut him, both of them deeper than any blade ever could. She looked back at him with a face of stone, a practiced look that took years to achieve.

"Three months, then . . .variable."

His eyes rolled back in his head, face appearing as if he had been struck in the heart by a lead arrow. A soft gasp followed, belittling the bound scream that hid behind a quickly heating exterior.

"What do you mean?" The words were spat as acid.

Work worn fingers ran through fair hair as her jar hung ajar. With a roll of her shoulders, she convinced herself to continue, passing through the growing knot in her stomach, which threatened to conquer he eyes and set the tear drop prisoners free.

"Before the product line is cut." She stared him dead in the eyes, blue meeting onyx "He has that much time"

His jaw visibly clenched, all teeth grinding together, the corners of his lips fighting to keep control over a snarl.

She took several steps back, never breaking eye contact out of fear, but more so, in respect.

"What do you mean?" He repeated himself, although an entirely different meaning was in order.

Going on a limb, she inhaled and spoke, though silently cursed her very name for doing what she had to. "I cannot control everything. If I could, then things would be different . . . "

She was cut off by a gaze that could shatter the sturdiest of glass and make humble the proudest of lions.

Pupils shrunk, she resumed "CC&A is not a monopoly, Piccolo. We don't have control of the market. Even if so, one vote cannot persuade . . .Persuade those of the others. Even if so." She shook her head in defiance. "I'm not in control of the situation anymore, and you know that."

To much amazement, he nodded; neigh surrendered his ground, apparently. Taloned fists clenched and unclenched, teeth grinding together, head pounding to a constant beat, he looks up, staring at her before making a last walk past, holding an arrow back and concrete face.

"You brought him here, it's your fate to carry him out."

He left her there, standing by herself as darker clouds moved in from the north. When all was seemingly still, and she was there with no one around but the heavens and the earth, it rained.

2-

The crucifix he always kept around his neck weighed him down, cutting his very lungs off, so it felt. The day had been spoilt from the beginning. It was not tide nor tide that brought it on, but the lingering feeling that things were off. Nothing lined up, asymmetry replaced order, chaos, symmetry; even the arrangements were skewed. Shaking his head. He moved on, walking the sky's ground with others of his kind peeking out from their holes and wondering if they too would someday walk as people instead of creatures, and it not them, then their children.

He paced the rooftop for an hour's time, judgment and sanity long since abandoned him, not that it was a severe loss, what he had left was robbed by the necessity to live by pills, if living is what you could call it. Legs soon to buckle under the pressure, chest heaving from the plague'ed mind's toiling, he stood near the edge, twisted hands fiddling with the cross as though it were a rubbing stone. His thoughts were morose. To be or not to be, however clichéd the idea was coursing though his veins like vinegar gone bad. It was a serious thought, one that was permanent. Either he could stay and bow to infirmity one more day, or he could end it now with one single step and a sudden stop. The latter option seemed better.

He grinned one last time and cast his covered eyes to the heavens. "Should I?" The timid baritone asked as softly as possible.

A single drop of rain landed upon his nose, running down the side of his cheek before a multitude followed.

Chucking to himself he looked down as he shook with soundless laughter. Nodding, he stood upon the ledge; both hands tightly wrapped around his cross, and with a single motion, took a leap of faith.

Halfway through he realized all his problems could be solved.