Black Holes

Black Holes

It was one of those nights. The moon gazed sadly upon the steely water, and the lake reflected with a million tiny teardrops, the stars pulsing with the rhythm of a universe unknown. A breeze whispered through the trees, slowly stirring the leaves that were not yet ready to fall. The grass bent unwillingly as well, rippling as if it was waves upon the sea. The air was warm and sweet, thick with the scents of the forests, the land. The wind smelt of life itself, and as it flowed like water over every little thing, the earth felt of peace.

Of course, he knew none of this.

Here, there was no breeze, there was no moonlight. Only shadow, which creeped upon him in the night, and in the day as well. He was covered in darkness, it was thick in his lungs, it smothered him.

He was alone here.

He sat in his damp, dark cell, and waited for her. He knew he would hear her soon, and then all would be well. Until then, there was nothing to do but contemplate his state.

He had spent the first few days in an uncontrollable rage. His screams and curses had echoed within the walls, and he felt as though he would explode. Then it passed, and he sank to the ground and had not stood since.

One of his finely formed hands lay in his vision. He stared intently at those long fingers. Once, they had been tipped with carefully groomed nails, the perfect end to the perfect hand.

"Phalanges," he said to no one in particular.

His days of carefully groomed anything were long over. Half his nails were bitten to a point, reminicent of claws.

"Snake's teeth."

The remaining nails had been torn completely off, a practice of self-mutilation he believed was done in a perfectly clear state of mind. But as any Muggle psychiatrist can tell you, the mind is a fragile thing.

He turned his hand over, and became equally engrossed in the subtleties of the forearm. His skin was flawless and nearly translucent. The purplish green veins from his wrist rose and wound like serpents to the crook of his elbow. He placed his index finger on a particularly thick one, and traced it until it disappeared into some unknown depths. He imagined it joining an artery, creeping trough his body like an invader, attaching itself to his heart like a leach...

His heart. Many would claim he had none. If he did surely it was black as coal. Surely no goodness could escape beyond the event horizon. Evil only sucked all the goodness in, trapping it within the depths, a mystery to normal human eyes. Then again, who was to say he was evil? Evil is such a subjective term.

"Subjective."

He had never felt as if his heart was black. Quite the contrary. It had always seemed as if it burned white-hot beneath his skin. Perhaps that made him more like that particular celestial body.

"Black hole."

Tap, tap, tap. It was her. That was the signal. It was time to go.

Evil and good meant nothing to him. Life itself is meaningless.

And perhaps that's all that matters.