The first snowflake settles on his nose in the bitter cold dawn. A sunrise paints its dusty colours across the city horizon, ominous and threatening from his lonely perch. High, so high above them all, above the city-dwellers. The early risers moving quietly through the atmosphere of silence befalling upon them all. He will stand undisturbed, rooted to his rooftop dwelling. His breaths are almost nonexistence, the rise and fall of his chest is barely followed by a whisper of visible heat escaping his lips, escaping into the cold morning air. His eyes remain closed, the muted sunrise glows across his clean canvas of a face. Heavy gray clouds are swept across the sky, in an unbreakable blanket. The only colours here are the weak, almost pathetic rays begging to be heard in the midst of all this gray. Slowly, so slowly, he begins to move. His warm, steady hand rises above his head, mimicking the most graceful of ballerinas. So begins the dance of morning. Clad entirely in black, he moves noiselessly through the empty space, feeling nothing but the concrete roof beneath his feet. Dark paint encircles his eyes, weighing his face down even further, crying out the pain he’s felt in his short life. Dark paint to mask him, to feel his sorrow in place of his heart. Silently he moves across the roof, eyes still unseeing. In ethereal patterns his fingers dance, twist and turn in this December dawn. He stops. Like a music box that must be rewound, his motion ceases entirely. Not a shiver, no reaction whatsoever to the bitter cold and the snow now falling heavier than before. His Eeyes snap open, clear and sharp as icicles, gray blue as the mist on a foggy morning. Those gray blue eyes, framed by his untamed hair. Black hair, grown long from years of more important things to think of, spills from his head. It shrouds his eyes with dark strands, like a wild beast come to take over his sorrowful soul for once and for all. Gliding steps he takes, dragging his worn boots over the concrete, coming to the edge of his building. On tiptoes he stands, chest thrust out and arms outstretched, as if begging the wind to push him over the ledge, begging it to carry him away from himself. Slowly, slowly his arms drop in continuation of his morning dance. He runs along the edge of his roof, his light footfalls never waver, he never seems to be aware of the gut-wrenching height at which he stands. Again he stops. A breeze floats in, and carries the hair away from a face that could be beautiful. He is beautiful; he is this city’s dark angel, flying above their heads in his dance of pain. Silent he remains, never even blinking. He just stares into the wind, his young face so placid. His lips are smeared with the same dark paint, as if tainting his unheard voice with its stony grip. In, out, his hushed breaths whisper at the morning air. His gloves have no finger coverings on them, and his icy, long fingers stretch out at his sides, the nails black, painted so that all he touched would be forever haunted by the memory of him. A final breath in, he holds, he closes his eyes. A single minor note spills form his mouth, beautiful it its tone and carrying all his distress along with it. His bittersweet song now rings out, accompanied by that pained expression staining his face. He walks along the edge of his rooftop as he sings his pain. Possessed by the music in his head, he screams the melody, dropping to his knees in plea to an unseen being, to no one. Crying, weeping for pity! He writhes and twists with every note, every word, and his heart is no longer his. It now belongs to the dawn, belongs to the clouds, belongs to other children of the darkness just like him. This is the first, and the last, this morning city will ever be both blessed and cursed by his haunting voice. Singing, screaming, weeping, running to the very edge, the last inch before the fall..! Just then he falls silent once more. A final cry, a single note ringing pure and true with the tragedy of his life. His arms spread out aslike wings, aslike wings belonging to the dark angel in his heart. He looks up, letting the hair fall away from his eyes, and his face glowing in the ethereal light of December dawn. He falls. He falls like the dark angel in his heart, no longer able to fly. His voice was ended; the morning dance would be no more. He was born; he died, in this December dawn.
December 6, 2012