I watched as he headed closer and closer towards the edge. He turned around to look at me, and then he began to speak. The tongue he spoke in was a clashing melody that included jilting notes, a steady crescendo, and abrupt rests. I didn’t comprehend a thing he said, but part of me was filled with dread.
I had seen this before, this darkness.
A dirty barren cell. A glorified hole in the wall, affectionately called a window. A thick wooden door with a small opening. Rusted chains on the floor. Decaying rat bones.
Oh, I knew his darkness.
A crystal cell. A snow-white cot by a window too high to see out of. Outside, only sea and sky. A needle, some coloured fluid. An echoing silence. A deafening quiet.
I saw his darkness.
A war-torn field. Carnage everywhere. A woman screaming. A baby crying. A sky ashen with thunder clouds. Birthplace of despair.
He looked back at the world down below. I always believed he had wings, but he never used them.
And I knew he never would.