Black & Blue
Spoiler
Life was noisy.
It shrieked through his being at every second of every hour, vibrating through the darkness of his two-dimensionality. He was complacent. He was quiet. He could not hate, nor could he love, as he had no body to express it. A shadow was at peace with himself. A shadow was always content with his hollowness.
But life was different. It was nothing like the quiet of the dark. It cried out into the abyss, echoing, looking for purpose. Clamor was its nature, chaos was its state of mind, and calamity was all that could befall it. It avoided death, it refused death, but at the same time, it seemed to revolve entirely around it.
Life was dark.
It was the shade of the alleyway he stood on, that night, avoiding the racket of the city life. The hour of vice struck, the hour where nightwalkers and drunks alike pooled at the pubs, spilling out with hangovers and hickeys. The only light available was the flickering neon of roach motels and strip clubs, selling salvation at the cost of several hundred dollar bills.
He saw her there, standing in the alleyway with him. She was leaning against the dumpster, her face painted in shades of blue—her torn overalls denim, her irises cerulean, the bruises on her left eye indigo, the festering wound on her exposed leg cobalt. Her gaze looked onward to the graffiti on the red brick wall, staring at a phallic signature left by a gangster or a teenage trash fire. Something was missing in her stare.
Life was vindictive.
“Hey kid,” he approached her, gently, a shadow speaking to the dying. “You alright there?”
She blinked once, to show that she was alive. She didn’t look up to him. He wasn’t sure if it was because she didn’t want to, or because she was too tired to exert the effort needed to move neck muscles. “Kid.” He leaned in, touching the girl by the shoulder. “What happened to you? Why are you like this?”
It was only then that the child took notice of him, inching slightly to look him in the eye. “I—I didn’t mean to,” she whispered, her voice raspy. “I was hungry. I—I couldn’t—help myself. I--”
A new shade of blue appeared, then, taking form as the hazily teal teardrop falling from her eyes. “It was only an apple.” She sobbed, her face crunching in pain. “I didn’t mean to. I was—I was hungry. But the man, he—he--”
Life was unnecessary.
He sat there in the darkness, his black arms wrapped around the girl’s blue shoulders, throwing his coat over her head. “You’re cold,” he whispered into her ear, shuddering just as the girl was. “You ought to keep yourself healthy, and strong. That’s what you are, aren’t you? You’re strong. You’ll always be strong.”
But he could not feel the vigor that characterized life in the little body wrapped in his arms. He could not feel the chaos streaming through her veins, the madness of running in circles he was accustomed to. She was too tired for the pointlessness of existence. He noted her every single heartbeat as nothing short of a miracle.
“You’re powerful.” He whispered into her ears, fearful of her closing eyes. “You’re young, and you’re powerful.”
She was too young. The innocence shone in her cheeks, permeated into the very core of his nothingness. She hasn’t experienced dark nights sipping on darker spirits. She hasn’t witnessed human cadavers with bullets in their heads piled up in a battlefield. She hasn’t witnessed violence in the streets of the city. She hasn’t felt the injustice the law has against the lower class. She couldn’t be a shadow. He wouldn’t allow her to be a shadow.
“You’re alive.”
He waited. He recalled. He sat there, in the blanket of the alleyway, neon lights still flickering in the distance. There was no heart beating in the body he was holding.
For that brief instance, he felt a flash of life in him, an anger that ought to be impossible for a being of darkness. He clutched the little body as tightly as he could, unwilling to accept its fate, unwilling to accept the inevitable. “You’re alive,” he whispered, harshly, into the girl’s ear, rocking her back and forth, “You’re alive, you’re alive, you’re--”
There was no heartbeat. Her cerulean eyes were dull. The shadow held the dying for as long as it could, desperate and enraged by the futility of the situation. And then, slowly, surely, he calmed. He faded. He let go of the little child, knowing there was nothing he could do.
Life was fleeting.
It was a glimmer that shone in him and died shortly after, leaving him as bare as he was before. He held onto the girl for a little while longer, before setting her down. He had no business being here. He had compromised his state of being, ruined the calm in him he had built up for years. He needed to return to the silhouettes. He had to return to the night.
“I’m--”
But life was relentless.
“I’m strong.”
Life was foolish.
“I’m powerful.”
Life was grand.
The shadow turned around, once again, looking life in the eye. He smiled. He laughed. He leaned in, grabbing the girl by the torso and holding her up. “Hold on, love,” he assured, “I’ll get you help as quickly as my feet can make it.”
“I’m alive,” the girl whispered, her voice like melodious scratched sandpaper.
“You are,” he started, holding her close as he walked out the alleyway, “You definitely are.”
And for a second, he almost was, too.
It shrieked through his being at every second of every hour, vibrating through the darkness of his two-dimensionality. He was complacent. He was quiet. He could not hate, nor could he love, as he had no body to express it. A shadow was at peace with himself. A shadow was always content with his hollowness.
But life was different. It was nothing like the quiet of the dark. It cried out into the abyss, echoing, looking for purpose. Clamor was its nature, chaos was its state of mind, and calamity was all that could befall it. It avoided death, it refused death, but at the same time, it seemed to revolve entirely around it.
Life was dark.
It was the shade of the alleyway he stood on, that night, avoiding the racket of the city life. The hour of vice struck, the hour where nightwalkers and drunks alike pooled at the pubs, spilling out with hangovers and hickeys. The only light available was the flickering neon of roach motels and strip clubs, selling salvation at the cost of several hundred dollar bills.
He saw her there, standing in the alleyway with him. She was leaning against the dumpster, her face painted in shades of blue—her torn overalls denim, her irises cerulean, the bruises on her left eye indigo, the festering wound on her exposed leg cobalt. Her gaze looked onward to the graffiti on the red brick wall, staring at a phallic signature left by a gangster or a teenage trash fire. Something was missing in her stare.
Life was vindictive.
“Hey kid,” he approached her, gently, a shadow speaking to the dying. “You alright there?”
She blinked once, to show that she was alive. She didn’t look up to him. He wasn’t sure if it was because she didn’t want to, or because she was too tired to exert the effort needed to move neck muscles. “Kid.” He leaned in, touching the girl by the shoulder. “What happened to you? Why are you like this?”
It was only then that the child took notice of him, inching slightly to look him in the eye. “I—I didn’t mean to,” she whispered, her voice raspy. “I was hungry. I—I couldn’t—help myself. I--”
A new shade of blue appeared, then, taking form as the hazily teal teardrop falling from her eyes. “It was only an apple.” She sobbed, her face crunching in pain. “I didn’t mean to. I was—I was hungry. But the man, he—he--”
Life was unnecessary.
He sat there in the darkness, his black arms wrapped around the girl’s blue shoulders, throwing his coat over her head. “You’re cold,” he whispered into her ear, shuddering just as the girl was. “You ought to keep yourself healthy, and strong. That’s what you are, aren’t you? You’re strong. You’ll always be strong.”
But he could not feel the vigor that characterized life in the little body wrapped in his arms. He could not feel the chaos streaming through her veins, the madness of running in circles he was accustomed to. She was too tired for the pointlessness of existence. He noted her every single heartbeat as nothing short of a miracle.
“You’re powerful.” He whispered into her ears, fearful of her closing eyes. “You’re young, and you’re powerful.”
She was too young. The innocence shone in her cheeks, permeated into the very core of his nothingness. She hasn’t experienced dark nights sipping on darker spirits. She hasn’t witnessed human cadavers with bullets in their heads piled up in a battlefield. She hasn’t witnessed violence in the streets of the city. She hasn’t felt the injustice the law has against the lower class. She couldn’t be a shadow. He wouldn’t allow her to be a shadow.
“You’re alive.”
He waited. He recalled. He sat there, in the blanket of the alleyway, neon lights still flickering in the distance. There was no heart beating in the body he was holding.
For that brief instance, he felt a flash of life in him, an anger that ought to be impossible for a being of darkness. He clutched the little body as tightly as he could, unwilling to accept its fate, unwilling to accept the inevitable. “You’re alive,” he whispered, harshly, into the girl’s ear, rocking her back and forth, “You’re alive, you’re alive, you’re--”
There was no heartbeat. Her cerulean eyes were dull. The shadow held the dying for as long as it could, desperate and enraged by the futility of the situation. And then, slowly, surely, he calmed. He faded. He let go of the little child, knowing there was nothing he could do.
Life was fleeting.
It was a glimmer that shone in him and died shortly after, leaving him as bare as he was before. He held onto the girl for a little while longer, before setting her down. He had no business being here. He had compromised his state of being, ruined the calm in him he had built up for years. He needed to return to the silhouettes. He had to return to the night.
“I’m--”
But life was relentless.
“I’m strong.”
Life was foolish.
“I’m powerful.”
Life was grand.
The shadow turned around, once again, looking life in the eye. He smiled. He laughed. He leaned in, grabbing the girl by the torso and holding her up. “Hold on, love,” he assured, “I’ll get you help as quickly as my feet can make it.”
“I’m alive,” the girl whispered, her voice like melodious scratched sandpaper.
“You are,” he started, holding her close as he walked out the alleyway, “You definitely are.”
And for a second, he almost was, too.