Into the Night
INTO THE NIGHT
My eyes were worn. Red. Teary. I had no mirror to look into. Needed no mirror. There was a window in front of me, a black scene blurring behind it and in that black scene, I saw myself. Haggard. Used. The hair that had once shown so beautifully in the crystal moonlight now held no beauty, no shine, it was only hair, as it had been before. The eyes that had once been so filled with laughter returned to their accustomed look of sorrow and remorse. There was a tearstain on the cheek that had once been so caressed. And upon the notebook in my lap was a scrawl barely legible to the writer.
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I let the scenes of blackness fly by; let the notebook sit on my lap. The scrawl across it was a masterpiece. Love, grief, hatred, desire, lust, passion, death, and pain – all the great emotions captured themselves in a few pages. I wondered – hopelessly wondered – where the masterpiece had been conceived. Not in my mind, but in the actuality that had been us.
The grass was wet, and the rain heavy. Yet, we still ran. Ran, almost wildly away from the world. Away from the world, into the night. How long had we waited for this moment. Three years, four years, five years? Whatever the number, it had been that many – if not more – too long. Your touches, like your words, were magic. Yet I already knew that – had known it for those years..
There were shouts of laughter from far away. Children of our age, indulging in child’s art and play. Then there was us, just the two us, swept away from the world of adolescence and into the path maturity. No hormonal lust or mind-created love. Only the real rose – having blossomed these years passed into a beautiful, tempting, luscious flower.
My hand folded…
…over the notebook. Sorrow looked me in the eye - dead as night and ghostly white, in her guise of young woman. There was a compassionate smiled upon white lips, echoing words of past. All have been here, and all have to escape the pain. All have failed. Sorrow unmasked herself, a young man sitting next to me. He looked worn too, as did I. His eyes spoke of pain, and his breathe whispered it on the open air.
“Cold night, yes miss?” A voice of uplifted happiness for a man of such obvious hurt.
“A bit.” I tried to imitate his voice but by the look in his eyes, I saw only folly.
“Osborne Dalton.” He reached his hand across the dirty armrest where the sheer possibility of this that happened near it was impossible to comprehend. How many young couples had exchanged the happy, slobbery kisses so common to young love? How many cartels had conversed casually about the trafficking of their product? How many whores and nightwalkers had offered themselves to the man or woman across the way?
Remembering the moment, I continued the formality so forgotten. “Friday Michaels.” His hand was the icy ness Sorrow left on you has her mark. Mine appeared the same.
“You’re a student, Friday? At Chedwick College? No?” Eyes that could read my soul, my thoughts, my sins, my life. Eyes that could entrance.
“I take it you are?”
“You have taken correctly. And don’t answer. I’ve seen you around campus. Do you enjoy your Lit. Class? Professor McCormik regales us with your superiority of the profession.”
Sorrow let happiness into my cheeks – a form of an embarrassed blush. “You are too kind.”
“Only glad to see a smile upon a sorrow touched face.” A slight curve to his fine mouth made sorrow disappear. Osborne Dalton, a young mad of good fortune and happiness revealed from under the mask. His hand folded…
…within mine. And the stars folded, within the night sky.
We walked, enraptured in the blissful company of just two – an even number for an uneven world.
“Friday, will you lay and watch the sky with me?”
“Noah, I -.”
“Only a minute.” And he tugged on my hand, leading to a clearing where we lay, the night sky our sole entertainment.
“What do you see?” Noah whispered, lips brushing my cheek and an artistic hand moving away wind blown hair from my eyes.
“Tranquility; a world of its own, without the troubles of this one. There is no turmoil, no grief, to suffering.” The being my inspiration, I let the troubles of life fall away. Away they fell and into Noah I fell. Into each other we fell.
“Friday…”
“…I’m in love.” Osborne stated - strange of a man of a five-minute acquaintance to speak of such deep and personal topics. “A horrid case it is too. Ups and downs. One minute it is the world and the next it is the deepest caverns of hell. I have lost my dignity and self-respect. These moments I wonder, am what I’m in love?”
The look of worn was obvious now. He too had his problems and trips and falls climbing the ladder. “No.” My answer came without thought. “Not one aspect of love have you portrayed to me. Pain you have made obvious. Perhaps it is the pains of falling out of love that you feel. I am sorry, Mr. Dalton, I can’t help you.”
“No,” he patted my hand, “I was not the one looking for help.”
“…all accumulates to this you know. The years we’ve spent building, destroying, rebuilding, and renovating have brought us here to this. And were does the path lead? Down a hill and never up again. The sky will tell you that. Passion is momentary, yet love is eternal.” Noah’s hand entwined in mine loosened its iron grip and slid away into the clearing, into the night, into the stars. “My love for you is eternal. Bus passion is only a moment. And the moment is spent far to soon.”
Moments followed in which time passed ever so slowly. We learned each other over, mentally, physically, and both combined. And what we learned, we had not known. For whilst others closed the distance over the years, we let the distance between us become larger day by day. Miles could not calculate the distance because physical distance was still the same. Noah was as far physically from me as he had been on the day of our first meeting, yet his mind was leagues from where it used to be.
“Sometimes, child’s are and play are survival.” Osborne stared at the blurring black scene. “It is all a game we play, Friday Michaels. A game I have played on too many times but have finally reached the end. The labyrinth had played her final tricks upon my mind. And while sorrow of the past still lurks, she has lifted her touch from my shoulder.” He paused, his glance changing from the blurring blackness to eyes once filled with love and laughter that had returned to their accustomed look of sorrow and remorse. “Let my tell you, Friday Michaels. I am in love, have been in love, and will fall in love again. For love is eternal; passion only momentary.”
Sorrow showed her face in the window, an illumination against the blackness. She blew a kiss to the unknown and blackness remained.
The metro rode into the night. The masterpiece rode into the night. And when it stopped, you weren’t there to read it. Weren’t there, though you always said you would be. There was no Noah to wait in the darkness of night, only Osborne to walk in light of the crystal moon.
Only the real rose – having blossomed these years got the chance to wither to death under the watchful eye of the night. And as hate for the clearing burned inside our memories, love burned for eternity, and that clearing was only momentary.
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