Clipped
Birth.
He had never felt so raw.
Like birth, suffocation erupted in his throat, producing a feral gasp for air in the black night. His naked, dirty form writhed in the shadows of the moist alley as he surfaced from an instant of disorientation. He blinked, startled by an emotion he could not name. His eyes were still burning beacons. Just sharp illusions against the urban landscape. A fallen soldier, still electrified with the heat of battle.
Although his existence had been cluttered with mesmerizing and harrowing moments, none had beckoned such a violent awakening as this half of a second.
Of the centuries he had roamed the earth and encountered the nature of sorrow, this was the epitome of them all; it was not so much pain as it was glory, to scuffle around on the brick alley, to choke on air, to thrust his limbs through the unreachable darkness without the certainty he had always known. So imperfect, so helpless in such a short instant.
Half blinded by confusion, the man thrashed in panic, feeling his face and hair, his chest, the loud beat of his heart. The wild demeanor with which he composed himself during that hour of panic and tragedy struck him as his back arched, his ribcage fought against his heart, his eyes cried. A rage pulsating throughout his body racked his posture into a claw-like shape.
With his hands he pulled his body towards a weak glow of light around the distant corner of the wall, the furthest his sight would allow him to comprehend. There he lay, half hunched against the wall, on the edge the city street light.
As the horizon grew into a tangerine shade he remained shivering against the moist wall, his neck shuddering in defeat and the clamor of fear. Like searching for shapes on the ocean surface, he cast a gaze towards no specific point. Miles and miles to travel. He had posed as statues and sculptures and paintings in his time, but in this dark alley he did not have the circulation of strength to keep still as he once did, flickering his eyes, his chest heaving.
Into the abyss he gazed, unsure of where to go, what to do, what to say. Suddenly he did not remember his language. His flawless, melodic language. The most perfect of all songs, the beauty of silence in an arctic tundra. He tried so hard to open his mouth and speak, but nothing came out. Only stutters and gasps.
It was hours before he heard the sound of footsteps which woke him from his shock. In his peripheral vision, a vague shape walked past, black against the light of very early morning.
It paused, then, "Sir? Sir, are you okay?" A muffled voice. "You know it's freezing outside..."
The voice disintegrated into silence. Bent over slightly with his hands on his thighs, the shape stood up straight again. He reached for something in his pocket, then pulled off the coat and tossed it over the frail being lying before him.
Immediately, he wrapped the dressing around his frame and sat up incoherently. He looked up, still dazed, and saw that it was a businessman, staring at him incredulously. The two men glared at each other, unwilling to look away yet too embarrassed to remain suspended in such unexpected mid-air. Abruptly, the businessman reached into his billfold and handed the fallen illusion five dollars.
As if he were never there, he disappeared around the corner, leaving the mysterious man relieved and startled at once. He secured the coat around him tighter and scrambled to his feet, uncertain of which direction to walk in. He peered out from the alley into the new, light morning, completely and utterly shocked by what had just occurred.
Like birth, suffocation erupted in his throat, producing a feral gasp for air in the black night. His naked, dirty form writhed in the shadows of the moist alley as he surfaced from an instant of disorientation. He blinked, startled by an emotion he could not name. His eyes were still burning beacons. Just sharp illusions against the urban landscape. A fallen soldier, still electrified with the heat of battle.
Although his existence had been cluttered with mesmerizing and harrowing moments, none had beckoned such a violent awakening as this half of a second.
Of the centuries he had roamed the earth and encountered the nature of sorrow, this was the epitome of them all; it was not so much pain as it was glory, to scuffle around on the brick alley, to choke on air, to thrust his limbs through the unreachable darkness without the certainty he had always known. So imperfect, so helpless in such a short instant.
Half blinded by confusion, the man thrashed in panic, feeling his face and hair, his chest, the loud beat of his heart. The wild demeanor with which he composed himself during that hour of panic and tragedy struck him as his back arched, his ribcage fought against his heart, his eyes cried. A rage pulsating throughout his body racked his posture into a claw-like shape.
With his hands he pulled his body towards a weak glow of light around the distant corner of the wall, the furthest his sight would allow him to comprehend. There he lay, half hunched against the wall, on the edge the city street light.
As the horizon grew into a tangerine shade he remained shivering against the moist wall, his neck shuddering in defeat and the clamor of fear. Like searching for shapes on the ocean surface, he cast a gaze towards no specific point. Miles and miles to travel. He had posed as statues and sculptures and paintings in his time, but in this dark alley he did not have the circulation of strength to keep still as he once did, flickering his eyes, his chest heaving.
Into the abyss he gazed, unsure of where to go, what to do, what to say. Suddenly he did not remember his language. His flawless, melodic language. The most perfect of all songs, the beauty of silence in an arctic tundra. He tried so hard to open his mouth and speak, but nothing came out. Only stutters and gasps.
It was hours before he heard the sound of footsteps which woke him from his shock. In his peripheral vision, a vague shape walked past, black against the light of very early morning.
It paused, then, "Sir? Sir, are you okay?" A muffled voice. "You know it's freezing outside..."
The voice disintegrated into silence. Bent over slightly with his hands on his thighs, the shape stood up straight again. He reached for something in his pocket, then pulled off the coat and tossed it over the frail being lying before him.
Immediately, he wrapped the dressing around his frame and sat up incoherently. He looked up, still dazed, and saw that it was a businessman, staring at him incredulously. The two men glared at each other, unwilling to look away yet too embarrassed to remain suspended in such unexpected mid-air. Abruptly, the businessman reached into his billfold and handed the fallen illusion five dollars.
As if he were never there, he disappeared around the corner, leaving the mysterious man relieved and startled at once. He secured the coat around him tighter and scrambled to his feet, uncertain of which direction to walk in. He peered out from the alley into the new, light morning, completely and utterly shocked by what had just occurred.