Snapshots
He stands on a rooftop. Alone. A dark blot against the tablecloth of snow. Silent. A hush before the scream. Still. A museum quality wax figure, so real until you notice it doesn't breathe.
No, he breathes. For a second, a quick fog emerges from his cold lips. A sign of moisture. Of heat. Of life.
For a second, he looks alive.
For a second.
She sleeps.
She dreams.
She sobs.
He gazes down at her shaking form, unmoving. Unmoving, but not unmoved.
Uninvited, but still at home.
His gloved hand rises, draws close to her. To her hair. Her cheek. Her lips.
His hand stops. Hovers.
There is only space between them.
Isn't there?
Alone again.
The only light filtering in from the skylight above. The brush of night paints the cell in gloom.
He is seated now, leaning into a corner, arms pressed up against the walls. Head bowed, in deference to those who are not there. In respect. In obedience. In worship.
His body before was coiled to strike. Now, void of instruction, he lolls supine in state.
He could almost be harmless, if not for his eyes. Black, black eyes, burning bright.
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
His chest moves with shallow breath, as his eyes, unblinking, search the darkness.
For what?
He is alone.