Fantastical tale about two who met in the middle of life and death.
Where am I? This my illusionary world, built by my mind to personify the loneliness of my being. It’s so dark. Why is it so dark?
I can see myself, like in a chiaroscuro painting of a broken violin, torn and forgotten for its lack of a song. What good is an instrument without its own music? What good is a person without love?
I want to disappear, no, I should disappear. Shrivel into the nothingness of my existence. Who would care, who would cry for me? Who would set flowers upon my grave with tears welled in their eyes and hateful thoughts for my demise? No one. My grave would stand abandoned of the sweet smell of pollen and the salt water dew from the sad eyes of those I leave behind. And then in years, cobwebs and dust shall cress my stone and wanderers will read my name in carelessness, and thoughtlessness.
This never-ending strand of blood flowing from my wrist, it marks my hopelessness, my uselessness, my hatred towards myself. I am hideous. The crimson drops form at the base of my palm, trickle down my arm and slowly fall of my elbow, marring the black floor. What beautiful colors, crimson splattered over black, like the fires of burning hell, like torture and sadism, like my world. Like my music. This is my sound, the sound of my reality, the music played by a skeleton orchestra. Pain. How beautiful. The sounds of death and violence
My music,.... it dies! Why!? Who drowns it in this horrid silence! It seems there is one other who has polluted my realm? Who dares shatter into my unknown reality, into my hell, my haven, my destiny?! He has come too close to me, this imposter. Go away. Do not look at me. I am ugly.
Yet he sits beside me? I dare not look, for fear the devil may have come to take me. But could it be a devil, whose breath is so warm against my cheek, and lips so soft against my temple, who radiates such warmth, like the summer breeze beneath winter sun, as he holds me in his tender grip? His fingers sweetly trace the blood off my arm. Don’t look. The scares. They are repulsive.
In fear I shake, in comfort he whispers. I cannot hear his speech, yet my soul is soothed by his heartbeat, I can feel it pulse through my body, like a flickering candle of hope.
He wraps my arm in golden cloth that remains unmarred by the crimson liquid. My eyes turn to meet the gaze of my angel, perhaps daemon, or simply a man. So beautiful. His eyes are so beautiful.
"Thank you" I whisper, but no voice is heard, after all I am in the realm of his silence. But he smiles, how kindly, in reply to my unheard voice, till the image of his face fades, and my consciousness eludes me.
* * ************************************** * *
I have awoken. I am in a white wash room, nurses and doctors, unknown faces squabbling around me. Their voices are so loud. There is nobody I recognize. Ofcource, nobody would visit me. Nobody cares. I am alone. I should just die.My heart begins to yearn for the darkness, from which came my skeleton orchestra, the burning red, the fires of hell.....the angel. That angel. I hear him call. I hear the silence; his silence; swiftly flowing like water in my ears. I turn, in reply to his voice. I walk, much to the astonishment of the Fools around me. They are so loud, such stupidity. I sit by his bed side. He looks into my eyes. And now, once again, there is no one, but us. Anxious confused voices drowned out by his silence; by our silence, as we speak in tongues they cannot understand, and in words none can hear. We speak in the forgotten language of silence.