November 8, 2006
noon (NYC time)
A rolling hill of flowers slopes down from the mountainside. Here the sunlight is warm, but the cool mountain air still chills bare skin. Among the flowers, small darkly feathered birds hop and flit, rooting around in the morning dew. The sun, just now cresting the horizon casts long shadows.
Their shadow is long too, longer than most. Breathing in deeply, they feel a pang of hunger settling in. A heavy knot in the pit of their stomach. Closing gold eyes, they concentrate on the feeling of hunger, on the feeling of nourishment. The warmth of the sun inspires, the light of the sun breathes life into all things. They change. The sun nourishes the body, fills up the feeling of hunger and replaces it with a light and a heat. The flowers know this.
Lips part, eyes open, and they raise their hands to the sky with fingers outstretched. Birds chirp, the wind blows, thick white clouds drift around the horizon and cast deep shadows wherever they move. The world is beautiful and full of possibilities. Life is endless and bountiful.
"Excuse me uh— " silence is broken. They turn, regarding the bearded man and his heavy clothes, his backpack and walking stick carved from an ash branch. "Are you ok? You— did something happen? Do you need me to… call somebody?" His eyes are averted, they can feel his shame at seeing their bare form.
They say nothing. Approach softly. He is entranced. They close their eyes, feel for him, but feel nothing. A breath is exhaled, and they lift a hand up to touch his cheek. Their head shakes, slowly. Smile, easy.
He will be different tomorrow.
November 8, 2011
3 pm (NYC time)
The sun hasn't risen yet. Interior lights are dim, enough to show their reflection in the glass. Tan skin and eyes of luminous gold, hair as dark as ink. They look out over a city of concrete and neon, feeling the pulse of the city beat in their veins. There is a girl, alone, uncertain of herself and what she will do with her life. She contemplates death.
They close their eyes, one bare hand on the glass. It is cold, rigid, unmoving. She is special, she is treasured. She should contemplate life. Their mind wanders, finds one nearby to those woods. Their eyes open, and they are He.
He looks at his hands, a flashlight. Poncho is slick with rain, glasses fogged. He feels her nearby, on the edge of the woods. He follows, turning off his flashlight and dropping it in the mossy ground underfoot.
She is close.
He steps over a twisting root, off the hard-packed path and down a slope. The roots part for him, the ground rises up to meet his feet. He hears her muffled sobs, but He is silent and shadow and the forest is his embrace. He reaches her, reaches out to her and touches a hand to her cheek. She gasps, feels fire in her veins. She ignites, a pillar of fire where once flesh and bone stood. She is alive in the flames. Feels more alive than she ever has. He is consumed, the fire swallows his flesh, cooks his mind, boils his eyes. She will never forgive herself.
Their eyes open. Reflection in the glass, neon and fog beyond. Gold eyes close.
The world is sick.