Alias Pseudonym (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
aliaspseudonym) wrote2010-03-15 02:34 am
aliaspseudonym) wrote2010-03-15 02:34 am
Entry tags:
Mercy
Warning. The story that follows is really quite depressing.
Overhead, an endless river of sunlight rushes silently by, staining the sky with deepest blue. Just below the same river crashes headlong into the streets, the buildings, the cars, the people as they go about their daily lives. It washes away; it simplifies -- burns away the hues and tones of their faces, leaving only reflected brilliance and harsh shadows, softened to blue by the vivid cyan sky.
Though most would call her a creature of darkness, Melanie has no dislike for high noon. Truthfully, she feels more in her element here than in the heart of midnight. In darkness there is always something unseen, always room for both hope and fear. This torrent, this downpour of light leaves no doubt. The sun shines truth at you from every window, every puddle, every warm spot on the road.
She dons a coat and takes a dark purple umbrella for the sun. The time for mercy is at hand.
On a the edge of a bridge, above the river, a young man sits and wishes he was somewhere else. He imagines grand forests and high mountains, and beautiful cities made all of glass or gold or ivory. But he sighs. He must amend his wish. His perch on the bridge -- suspended between two lands, between two skies, between a reality and a reflection -- is as good as any. He wishes he were someone else.
The water below flows very smooth today. It tells a convincing lie, claims to be a portal to infinity, to the sun, to the sky. It is just under three feet deep.
He feels a buzz, hears a beep. Flips open his cell phone. A friendly voice says hello, calls him Richard.
“You must have the wrong number,” says Richard. He flings the phone at the water. It falls about five feet short of where the sun floats on the gentle waves. Ripples disturb the mirror for only a minute. Soon the sun returns; it glares at him, angrily.
“There’s no point in breaking a mirror.” The speaker was a passing young man, a tall, wiry sort with long blonde hair that blew about in the least breeze. “It’ll just flow back. Glass is a liquid, you know.”
“What if you don’t like what you see?”
The young man shrugged. “I dunno. But don’t blame the mirror.”
The newcomer left. For some time, Richard simply sat, thinking.
“My swimming instructor,” he tells the suns, “said I had the most perfect dive. That was quite a few years ago. I got a badge. I don’t know where it is anymore.”
The world seems unimpressed. The sun rises slightly higher.
Richard raises his hands as if to dive.
An umbrella come between him and the sun, shielding him.
Melancholy says, “What are you doing, Richard.”
It is not strange that she knows his name. It is perfectly natural. “Diving.”
“Why?”
“Because I know how to dive.”
“Turn around.”
Richard turns. Melanie stands in the shade of her umbrella, shielded from the obliterating light. In her eyes he sees a deep sadness beyond anything he could imagine. He feels them pull him in, he takes a step towards her, but she looks down and he stops.
Melancholy whispers, “Why do you want to die?”
“I am worthless. I cannot face myself any longer. I cannot face them any longer.”
She glances up at him, probes at his mind, tests his resolve.
“Why?” she asks again.
He drops to his knees. “Mom… sis… I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean… I forgot… I… how can I…”
He cries. “What have I done?”
She is sorry, but still she asks, “What have you done?”
His eyes drain of tears. They drain of light. “I killed her. I left her sleeping in a running car. She was two years old.”
She catches his gaze again and peers deep into his soul. It is sad but there may yet be hope. In darkness there is hope and fear -- in light, only life and death. She folds the umbrella.
He squints and flinches from the sudden brightness. The sun blazes through his eyes into his soul, and reflects back. Melancholy sheds a tear. His soul is a ragged, broken thing, undermined by an abusive childhood, famished from lack of love, and now utterly crushed by the weight of his crime. Perhaps Finder himself could see the spark of life in there, could nurse it back to health. Melanie Collins can only offer mercy.
The umbrella unfolds again and blocks out the sun. Richard takes a few steps toward the edge.
“Look at me, Richard. Look into my eyes.”
He looks. He falls forward, forward into Melanie’s arms. She holds him there, and she cries over him.
Melancholy whispers, “Awake. The sun is shining. The birds are singing. Awake.”
Something that is more or less Richard awakes and leaves the bridge with a spring in its step. The sorceress Melancholy watches him go sadly. It is mercy, isn’t it? He will have a life, of a sort. It must be a mercy, to live without sadness.
Melanie returns to her tower, and she cries, because she knows better.
Overhead, an endless river of sunlight rushes silently by, staining the sky with deepest blue. Just below the same river crashes headlong into the streets, the buildings, the cars, the people as they go about their daily lives. It washes away; it simplifies -- burns away the hues and tones of their faces, leaving only reflected brilliance and harsh shadows, softened to blue by the vivid cyan sky.
Though most would call her a creature of darkness, Melanie has no dislike for high noon. Truthfully, she feels more in her element here than in the heart of midnight. In darkness there is always something unseen, always room for both hope and fear. This torrent, this downpour of light leaves no doubt. The sun shines truth at you from every window, every puddle, every warm spot on the road.
She dons a coat and takes a dark purple umbrella for the sun. The time for mercy is at hand.
On a the edge of a bridge, above the river, a young man sits and wishes he was somewhere else. He imagines grand forests and high mountains, and beautiful cities made all of glass or gold or ivory. But he sighs. He must amend his wish. His perch on the bridge -- suspended between two lands, between two skies, between a reality and a reflection -- is as good as any. He wishes he were someone else.
The water below flows very smooth today. It tells a convincing lie, claims to be a portal to infinity, to the sun, to the sky. It is just under three feet deep.
He feels a buzz, hears a beep. Flips open his cell phone. A friendly voice says hello, calls him Richard.
“You must have the wrong number,” says Richard. He flings the phone at the water. It falls about five feet short of where the sun floats on the gentle waves. Ripples disturb the mirror for only a minute. Soon the sun returns; it glares at him, angrily.
“There’s no point in breaking a mirror.” The speaker was a passing young man, a tall, wiry sort with long blonde hair that blew about in the least breeze. “It’ll just flow back. Glass is a liquid, you know.”
“What if you don’t like what you see?”
The young man shrugged. “I dunno. But don’t blame the mirror.”
The newcomer left. For some time, Richard simply sat, thinking.
“My swimming instructor,” he tells the suns, “said I had the most perfect dive. That was quite a few years ago. I got a badge. I don’t know where it is anymore.”
The world seems unimpressed. The sun rises slightly higher.
Richard raises his hands as if to dive.
An umbrella come between him and the sun, shielding him.
Melancholy says, “What are you doing, Richard.”
It is not strange that she knows his name. It is perfectly natural. “Diving.”
“Why?”
“Because I know how to dive.”
“Turn around.”
Richard turns. Melanie stands in the shade of her umbrella, shielded from the obliterating light. In her eyes he sees a deep sadness beyond anything he could imagine. He feels them pull him in, he takes a step towards her, but she looks down and he stops.
Melancholy whispers, “Why do you want to die?”
“I am worthless. I cannot face myself any longer. I cannot face them any longer.”
She glances up at him, probes at his mind, tests his resolve.
“Why?” she asks again.
He drops to his knees. “Mom… sis… I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean… I forgot… I… how can I…”
He cries. “What have I done?”
She is sorry, but still she asks, “What have you done?”
His eyes drain of tears. They drain of light. “I killed her. I left her sleeping in a running car. She was two years old.”
She catches his gaze again and peers deep into his soul. It is sad but there may yet be hope. In darkness there is hope and fear -- in light, only life and death. She folds the umbrella.
He squints and flinches from the sudden brightness. The sun blazes through his eyes into his soul, and reflects back. Melancholy sheds a tear. His soul is a ragged, broken thing, undermined by an abusive childhood, famished from lack of love, and now utterly crushed by the weight of his crime. Perhaps Finder himself could see the spark of life in there, could nurse it back to health. Melanie Collins can only offer mercy.
The umbrella unfolds again and blocks out the sun. Richard takes a few steps toward the edge.
“Look at me, Richard. Look into my eyes.”
He looks. He falls forward, forward into Melanie’s arms. She holds him there, and she cries over him.
Melancholy whispers, “Awake. The sun is shining. The birds are singing. Awake.”
Something that is more or less Richard awakes and leaves the bridge with a spring in its step. The sorceress Melancholy watches him go sadly. It is mercy, isn’t it? He will have a life, of a sort. It must be a mercy, to live without sadness.
Melanie returns to her tower, and she cries, because she knows better.