Silence always follows

Silence Always Follows

I am where the forsaken lie

On barren beds of silence

Nothing can disturb the slumber

Of those who will not wake

Of those who dwell on dreams

So full and real

That reality conspires to steal

Away with these empty hopes!

Away with these deceitful lies!

Still we dare not open our eyes

For the truth is far more lonely

A sharper shade of bitter too

Deeper than we could ever imagine

- Jezabel

It's too dark for me to see, but I know that he is there, lying beside me. I lay still and listen to his soft, shallow breathing. And for a long time it is so quiet I could almost hear the shadows move.

A shaft of pure moonlight slices through the room from a crack in the thick velvet curtains. Slowly, I blink; once, twice, and the darkness seems to shift, leaving me with a tiny hint of vision. I lift my head and balance on my elbows as I struggle to see his face. Jade windows are shut, and ebony hair spills across the pillow in black waves; too dark, even, to blend with the shadows.

I lie back down and move closer to his sleeping form, dropping my head close to his and letting our hair mingle. Together, it looks like moonlight and night shadows. My own fine streaks of silver slicing through his darkness. I laugh a little at the irony that perhaps I could be the light in this shadowed world. He shifts ever so slightly, and I close my eyes to welcome a different sort of darkness.

More silence in the early hours of the morning, as the sky turns the pale grey shade of dawn. And for one blissful moment I let myself believe that I am still dreaming, that this moment could last forever. But it is no dream, no conjured fantasy. It is day; it is October first 1997; and it is war.

As if in prelude to the coming years, the sky has melted into a deep red, staining the clear blue sky like coursing venom. I curse the moon for leaving so soon, and I loathe the garish sun for bleeding so deceitfully across the sky as if it could not cover its own wounds as I have learned to do. Or, perhaps, I need not cover what does not exist; maybe I have already been healed. Scars of the past trace their way across my wrists, begging to flow freely. But I have long ago closed that part of myself. I let it go. As I said, I may even have been healed.

My thoughts a broken as, once again, he moves, this time to face me, and I steal a glance at emerald eyes before they shut again. He pulls me close and presses his warm lips to mine. The feeling is indescribable. Slowly, I fall again into slumber.

I wake in time to watch him leave. And there is silence; silence, it seems, I am forever doomed to lie in.

"Will you come back?" I ask, uttering the one question whose answer I am sure will break my heart.

His face is pale and painful to watch. For a long while he lingers in the doorway, and I am struck by a moment of pure simplicity. I realize, rather ridiculously, that he is just a boy; a boy standing in the doorway with his clear, green eyes shattered in the painful finality of goodbyes.

I am guessing he had hoped to avoid this moment by leaving while I still slept; and strangely enough, I too believe it would have been better that way. But then again, I too am just a boy, asking for nothing more than a promise of return. Why is it that even this seems too much of an impossible request?

"If I can find a way," he says.

The door closes, and the silence always follows.