Why is the Sky Sad?
A Red-covered Book
James read the book, looking over every word. Reading but not living, comprehending but not absorbing, content but not happy. James did not care about the long journey Marcus Reed was about to endure. He didn’t feel anything for the beautiful Alice, a maiden with silky blonde hair that tumbled past her thin waist. He didn’t become the story. He wasn’t Marcus Reed walking down a path covered in fallen twigs that snapped with each thoughtful step. He wasn’t standing beneath the protection of great, leafy trees. He was just James, sitting in his chair, reading.
The sky was silent, not cheerful nor sad. The clouds were grey as they floated across, threatening tears that couldn’t break through. James didn’t notice. His mind was faraway, thinking about everything. About nothing. The dinner that sat by his chair stayed, growing colder with each passing minute it went untouched. James didn’t notice.
The red-covered book closed. The page wasn’t marked, not a corner folded nor creased, no bookmark was stashed between the flimsy pages. James didn’t place the book on the shelf, a place were it was destined to be found, read again. Rather, just letting it slip from his fingers, fall to the ground. James didn’t react to the soft thump he heard as the cover connected with the carpet. Nor did he care.
The air was sticky with heat. The orange flames licked the back of his neck, dark hairs prickling. His palms grew clammy he clasped them together. He could feel the water, the salt. He could smell his blood, his scent, something that belonged to only him.
His room grew dark. James grew lonelier. The sky started to cry. James stood up and left.
***
The hallway was a vast, never-ending path. The walls were a soft brown, a warm color that was supposed to comfort, to remind visitors of home. It let them pretend, at least for a moment, that they belonged. They weren’t strangers in a far-away land, thousands of miles away from their families. The walls were brown, so they were home.
James fidgeted, toying with the hem of his shirt. He felt uncomfortable, distressed, exposed. He itched to run back to his room, his chair, his home. But he didn’t. He continued forward, placing one foot in front of the other. He cleared all thoughts, keeping his mind empty, an open book. He concentrated on the constant, rhythmic pattern of his feet as they carried him to his destination. Left, right, left, right…
The staircase went round and round, with a fancy black banister and a red carpet. It told strangers how wealthy his family was. They couldn’t have regular stairs that plunged downwards in a straight line. No, that was for the peasants. Their stairs needed to be special, different, like him. So James went round and round with the staircase, traveling downwards in a circle.
It was easy to tell what kind of person Richard MarKent was by peeling back the grand doors and peaking into what lay beyond. Richard was a man who did not and would not settle. His garden would be the best, full of blooming, timeless flowers worked on day and night. The paintings that sat on the walls were abstract, swirls of colors blending into one. Richard didn’t know what they meant. James knew they were magical.
Richard’s wife was consistently dripping in jewels. Diamonds and emeralds hung from her neck and her ears, her wrists and her ankles. The dresses she wore were always black and always expensive. She was perpetually smiling, something fake and plastic. James used to know who she was, he forgot.
James continued to walk; the doors he meant to go through were only a few paces away. They were glass and, just like the front entrance, there were two of them. He opted to go through the left door, the one with the gold handle. Gold reminded James of fire, the hot fire that was currently burning inside his room. He could close his eyes and picture the hungry flames with a sense of clarity that only came from staring at one image day and night.
The fire was a monster, destroying anything and everything in its path. It was a source of pure power, an un-stoppable element. A stable object, full of life and wonder, could fall, sparks igniting, flying, soaring, until they stopped spitting out nothing in return. The once vivid paper full of endless words and possibilities would become a burned piece of ash, all meaning lost forever. James embraced the fire. James wished he could be that strong, that powerful. James wished but didn’t hope.
***
The tears were falling fast, furious, like they couldn’t get to the ground quick enough. The water would collect in the grass, sinking deep into the earth’s skin, feeding the roots, the world beneath. They continued to crash to the soil as James continued to watch. They would descend fast than slow, dribbling now. The sun was gone, hidden behind a plethora of dark clouds, refusing to shine, to be seen. This made the sky cry harder, the tears again falling faster. Why was the sun hiding? Why? Why? Why?
James blinked, standing beneath the protection of an awning. It was striped blue and white, tiny stars lining the border, slanted towards the earth. Water would land, slipping, dropping to the edge where it’d fall again this time slower, constant. James was protected, his gelled hair and rich clothes stayed dry. James was safe, the tears fell and the sky was sad.
His legs ached, groaning under the pressure of his weight. So he sat, ankles crossed in front of him the tips of his toes sticking out, droplets of water landing on the wrinkled skin. He wiggled them, smiling, remembering years ago when he was small. He laughed wanting to go back, to press rewind. He never wanted to let go, so he didn’t.
The sky was silent, not cheerful nor sad. The clouds were grey as they floated across, threatening tears that couldn’t break through. James didn’t notice. His mind was faraway, thinking about everything. About nothing. The dinner that sat by his chair stayed, growing colder with each passing minute it went untouched. James didn’t notice.
The red-covered book closed. The page wasn’t marked, not a corner folded nor creased, no bookmark was stashed between the flimsy pages. James didn’t place the book on the shelf, a place were it was destined to be found, read again. Rather, just letting it slip from his fingers, fall to the ground. James didn’t react to the soft thump he heard as the cover connected with the carpet. Nor did he care.
The air was sticky with heat. The orange flames licked the back of his neck, dark hairs prickling. His palms grew clammy he clasped them together. He could feel the water, the salt. He could smell his blood, his scent, something that belonged to only him.
His room grew dark. James grew lonelier. The sky started to cry. James stood up and left.
***
The hallway was a vast, never-ending path. The walls were a soft brown, a warm color that was supposed to comfort, to remind visitors of home. It let them pretend, at least for a moment, that they belonged. They weren’t strangers in a far-away land, thousands of miles away from their families. The walls were brown, so they were home.
James fidgeted, toying with the hem of his shirt. He felt uncomfortable, distressed, exposed. He itched to run back to his room, his chair, his home. But he didn’t. He continued forward, placing one foot in front of the other. He cleared all thoughts, keeping his mind empty, an open book. He concentrated on the constant, rhythmic pattern of his feet as they carried him to his destination. Left, right, left, right…
The staircase went round and round, with a fancy black banister and a red carpet. It told strangers how wealthy his family was. They couldn’t have regular stairs that plunged downwards in a straight line. No, that was for the peasants. Their stairs needed to be special, different, like him. So James went round and round with the staircase, traveling downwards in a circle.
It was easy to tell what kind of person Richard MarKent was by peeling back the grand doors and peaking into what lay beyond. Richard was a man who did not and would not settle. His garden would be the best, full of blooming, timeless flowers worked on day and night. The paintings that sat on the walls were abstract, swirls of colors blending into one. Richard didn’t know what they meant. James knew they were magical.
Richard’s wife was consistently dripping in jewels. Diamonds and emeralds hung from her neck and her ears, her wrists and her ankles. The dresses she wore were always black and always expensive. She was perpetually smiling, something fake and plastic. James used to know who she was, he forgot.
James continued to walk; the doors he meant to go through were only a few paces away. They were glass and, just like the front entrance, there were two of them. He opted to go through the left door, the one with the gold handle. Gold reminded James of fire, the hot fire that was currently burning inside his room. He could close his eyes and picture the hungry flames with a sense of clarity that only came from staring at one image day and night.
The fire was a monster, destroying anything and everything in its path. It was a source of pure power, an un-stoppable element. A stable object, full of life and wonder, could fall, sparks igniting, flying, soaring, until they stopped spitting out nothing in return. The once vivid paper full of endless words and possibilities would become a burned piece of ash, all meaning lost forever. James embraced the fire. James wished he could be that strong, that powerful. James wished but didn’t hope.
***
The tears were falling fast, furious, like they couldn’t get to the ground quick enough. The water would collect in the grass, sinking deep into the earth’s skin, feeding the roots, the world beneath. They continued to crash to the soil as James continued to watch. They would descend fast than slow, dribbling now. The sun was gone, hidden behind a plethora of dark clouds, refusing to shine, to be seen. This made the sky cry harder, the tears again falling faster. Why was the sun hiding? Why? Why? Why?
James blinked, standing beneath the protection of an awning. It was striped blue and white, tiny stars lining the border, slanted towards the earth. Water would land, slipping, dropping to the edge where it’d fall again this time slower, constant. James was protected, his gelled hair and rich clothes stayed dry. James was safe, the tears fell and the sky was sad.
His legs ached, groaning under the pressure of his weight. So he sat, ankles crossed in front of him the tips of his toes sticking out, droplets of water landing on the wrinkled skin. He wiggled them, smiling, remembering years ago when he was small. He laughed wanting to go back, to press rewind. He never wanted to let go, so he didn’t.