Night Has Begun

“The sun is setting on our souls. Trees outlined in the brightest hues of goldenrod and nectarine, black on the horizon, pleasing the eye with the most distasteful sweetness. Rueful integrity, night has begun.”1

Reading the words means nothing. Stating them aloud confronts naught. Perhaps that is the point. To state them without understanding, to follow them without thought, to become them without…everything. Ron sat amazed as the sky did exactly as the words had just described. The sun sets behind the horizon full of trees that became black without the full glow of the sun on them.2

His feet are propped upon an end table, elbows comfortably at his sides while his back is slumped in the perfect arc of someone with little care for elderly back problems bound to come. Disheveled hair tops his slightly darkened crown; black glasses perch his beak-like nose. Piercing eyes graze the surface of the book held easily in two bony, long fingered hands in his lap, not really focusing, but merely thinking while apparently reading.3

The room surrounding him has a messy look, but is not that bad. A teenager’s room would be much worse. Clothes are piled on a chair, flowing gracefully to the floor. Crates full of papers and notes are stashed in corners while random bags, books, picture frames, shoes, pictures, crafts, and other various objects are camped out around the room. Pens and inkwells are the only objects placed with obvious concern. A window is covered with draperies of a dark color, blocking out all light and sound from the outside world. The only available view to the man is a couple inches of window from a room across the hall. Lacey fabric attempts to block out the falling sun, but it fails miserably as the man’s gaze moves from the book to the window, green eyes seeking out anything while taking in everything.4

“Hmph.” His mumbled grunt goes unheard; his mind continues to whir uncontrollably, thoughts creating thoughts, ideas creating masterpieces, statements forming dreams…5

Music begins to resonate from the walls, a dramatic piece with stringed instruments, something foreign, almost Russian sounding. The man drops his feet to the floor, the book falling to the floor with a soft thump landing cover first, the picture of a brick house on the back. The soft music continues playing, never changing pace, never changing its intent.6

Glasses come off the beak-like nose, placed carelessly atop a stack of papers on a desk to his right. A magazine is picked up, held loosely in one hand while the other flips through pages, eyes on the door three paces from the black chair. Above the man’s right temple a twitch begins bumping slightly, barely visible to an outsider, quite obvious to the man’s overzealous mind.7

Soon enough a slight shuffle is heard just outside the door three paces away from the chair the man with the beak-like nose sits in. His automatic minor movement almost jars him from the chair, but he refrains as metal against metal is barely heard above the soft sounds of the music lively but softly playing through the walls. The handle on the door doesn’t move, yet the door is now open. The man’s eyes, which had been on the door, were no where near it, seemingly engrossed in the content of the magazine held in one hand while the other gently turns a page.8

A slight woman walks in. Dark hair cut short, dark eyes surrounded by black eye shadow and eyeliner, a white shirt with tiny black suspenders hook above her shoulders. An odd effect, so dark yet so obviously bright. Eyes that hold intense possibilities. Face of an angel so pleasantly tempting.9

The woman steps one and a half paces into the room: too close to the man, too far from the door. She gazes at him, eyes doe-like. He turns seven more pages. Finally, he looks at her along the length of his beak-like nose. No words are spoken. Passion doesn’t flair. Heat doesn’t emanate throughout the room. Somehow, though, communication is made.10

Magazine on the black chair, the man stands. He towers over the woman, yet he knows she is the one in power. As does she. Willingly, he lowers his head. Now they are level in eye sight. His gaze is weak, unable to become strong as he usually does when reading or thinking. Losing focus she takes a half pace his way. They are within arm length of one another.11

Ostentatiously, they come together. Bodies bump together, eyes close, and lips melt.12

“Shining lights guide the way. In hate they come together, fear shackled by hope, rue the day of its heavenly night. Watch in terror as this tattered slayer brings death unto our hearts…”13

A war is fought, the woman and man grapple for the upper hand until finally, in one quick movement, they are on they floor, side by side. In a tender movement, the man brings one hand up to her face, hesitantly touching one cheek before that finger dashes away. Lips come together again, this time the woman leans over the man as he goes to his back. Slowly, her tongue finds its way into the others mouth.14

Before the man realizes what is going, he feels something prickly moving along his tongue. He coughs, pushes the woman away from him. Her tongue moves slowly back in her mouth, a slight quirk to her lips. In horror the man continues to cough, the prickle moving farther along his tongue, past the molars and incisors. Deep into his throat, he coughs. It moves to the middle of his throat, growing in size as his airway is blocked.15

He falls to his side, finally able to intensely scrutinize the woman to which he became a prisoner. Claws hidden perfectly, she backs toward the door, weapon of choice now effectively working.16

Doe-like eyes watch the man for another second before just as amazingly as she had entered, she was gone. A man alone in his condemnation, room a bit of a mess, though not nearly as bad as a teenager. Clothes thrown all around, books, notes, pictures, and other fine objects randomly strewn, only pens, an inkwell, and a man with a beak-like nose are placed with obvious concern.17