Four

There were four of them, coming slowly through the alley, a train of darkness. They entail agony, hate,
death, and darkness; everything that is hurtful, evil, that was released in hateful vengeance from that loathed
box of Pandora. With them came the pungent scent of blood, poignant like the tears shed on a tawny
summer night that was too hot for comfort. Painful like the ocean that fed into the open wound. I wanted to
close my senses.

I huddle deeper into the shadows as they came walking, fresh from their duty. I had seen them before. I had
smelled them before. I had cowered before.

I could not run, however; and, in truth, they did not frighten me. Not them. Only their actions, only the
emotions that were so strong they leaked away in rivers, accosting my heightened senses with a terrible
certainty that I could not avoid and a swelling darkness I nearly drowned in.

The four figures didn’t frighten me; rather, I am curious. My eyes would gather the light, luminescent and
amber, as I peer from my crouched hiding place, safe and secure in my back-world of alleys, but trembling
on the edge of their lives.

/ Four dark shapes down an alley dark /
/ Four silhouettes cast iron wrought /
/ Hand to weapon, /
/ shimmer to blood, /
/ Four upon night, hate upon thought. /

Him.

Hair like fire grazed an earring, a symbol of something I could not hope to comprehend. Perhaps it was a
statement he chose to make, perhaps it was more. It radiated a sense of belonging there, but also of
belonging with sorrow. It was strange, that which it radiated, because it was only an inanimate object; but
the emotion was there. I knew, and others like me would know. We have that sort of affinity, with people
and with objects, that no one knows about. It’s not that it’s a big secret; it’s just that no one has ever cared
to ask.

Still him.

Skin pale like the dead of winter, of snow waiting to be soiled and splashed, torn and churned on a fresh
morning. Waiting like him, to be ruined over and over again, to be replaced by a new façade each time, only
waiting for detriment once more. To pile up beneath, crushed tighter and tighter, forming a hard wall of ice
that no one could ever hope to penetrate. Any attempt to break it, to crush through the fresh snow to the ice
beyond, would result in simply packing it deeper. Hopeless.

He was their leader, he was the shadow that cleared the way through kin known as Darkness, to slash and
push ahead through the night. He would never turn to face them, never turn and ask for help if he needed it;
he was too unwilling, too full of pride that was painful enough to reflect in his eyes when he thought no one
was peering at him.

He would never turn as his sword was still with him, dripping fresh with blood, from whatever it was they
were always about. He would never let the others see him now, unless it was by his choice.

They would never see the single tear that crawled down his face. Only I, I that watched from darkness,
would bear witness to that crystal wetness, shed in spite of everything he boasted, in spite of all his icy pride.

Every time, I study that single teardrop with renewed curiosity; it doesn’t belong, not in those features set
how they are. But in his eyes...

They are the windows to the soul, it is said. It’s true; those windows open when no one is watching; his soul
emerges, something that seems dead at first glance - at first blood - as long as no one is there to see it, and
the tear falls. Every time.

The others will never know.

/ Four dark shapes in an alley dim /
/ Four bearing blood on hands of sin /
/ Eyes to the darkness, /
/ back to the stars, /
/ Four figures rising where death has been. /

Him.

Footsteps ring dully, thudding with a heavy guilt. He is as intriguing as the first, because in him I sense
naivete, something that doesn’t seem to fit with the actions he has done, the blood that he has drawn. He
radiates an impression of innocence, of the will and the fire to follow any emotion that arises. He doesn’t see
need to put up a wall, not like the first. He is open, receptive.

He is hurt.

He is hurt because he allows himself to be. He is open to the joys of life, yet that entails life’s demons and
pains. So his scars, most not running deep, are many; he never fully heals.

But he still confuses me, perhaps as much as the first. As he trudges by, I flick my tail, shifting slightly,
ducking my head to peer upward. His face is lost in shadow.

Still him.

I sense within him a good spirit; my kind is drawn to ones like him. Children are also drawn to ones with
emotions and an inner self like his. We form with those people an immediate affinity.

If not for the blood on his claws - a wicked imitation of that which I naturally bear - I would believe him
pure. I would believe him a friend by default, for in spite of all appearances, I choose by spirit. And I would
choose him. If not for the blood on his claws.

Yet it does not make him evil; otherwise, I would feel that. I sense evil. But the burden he bears brings him
closer to defeat, weakens his spirit, enough that I can sense it.

As he walks by, I fix my light-gathering eyes upon his face. His eyes may be dark, but his lips are visible, just
barely, even to my enhanced vision.

A small smile curves his lips.

I was startled the first time I viewed it; it contradicts the pain I feel sweeping from him, from them all. But
perhaps it serves it’s purpose.

Perhaps he has trained his mind to momentarily forget about the blood that drips from his hands, of the pain
of the actions that are brought on by what it is he does. Perhaps he has learned to think of the few things that
make him truly happy, and that brings the small smile to his face.

Perhaps it is a defiance of all the wrongs and sins he seems to be facing; perhaps it is his last, desperate
attempt to say that, through it all, he still has a smile. He will not lose hope.

But whatever it’s purpose, the smile remains his, his and mine alone. He never shares it with anyone else, not
this smile, filled both with sweet pain and painful promise. He never turns, never makes a sound.

The others will never know.

/ Four shapes cloaked in paradoxed light /
/ Four shadows lost in compromised sight /
/ Knife to breast, /
/ hilt to blade, /
/ Four figures rise, souls to the night. /

Him.

Slender, eyes brilliant; I saw them once, his eyes, when the weak light of a broken, defeated street lamp
flickered in perfect time for a reflection. I caught a single glance at the eyes of this young one.

They were deep blue, sparkling, endless and pooling. The seven seas poured into two. I could almost believe
they didn’t belong in the waves of sorrow the four emitted.

Almost.

Because, even in that brief glimpse, even in the glittering shine, I caught what was hidden. I saw that there
was a pain and agony concealed, as much or more sorrow as the others bore. The sad emotions were not
hidden behind a mask, however, or a wall of stone; they were hidden simply by his innocence.

His purity and joy was fighting against the encroaching darkness. His will was strong, and I had to
appreciate it, could not help but believe in him. A figure of hope, a diamond in the seas of coal. Truly
unexpected, but gratefully accepted. I was glad to know that these four had hope among them.

And although he was not the only bearer of hope, that sensation that I and my kin sense as a white ambience,
sweet and fulfilling, he was the strongest. Every time he passed, I wanted to silently combine my strength
with his.

Still him.

As his soft footsteps pass me, I let my eyes shift downward, from the eyes that now hardly showed a
glimmer of what good things were within, to his hand. The slender fingers were clenched tightly, trembling.
The first was tight.

Tight enough to draw blood.

I could see the crimson droplets of liquid trail slowly down his hand, and was fascinated yet again by the
slowness and clarity with which the blood moved. Every time I saw him, the blood was slow and deliberate
in it’s descent. Significant, perhaps.

I could almost fathom a reason why he did it, why, after every time he passed through, there was blood
dripping from his hands that was his own, there was a self-inflicted injury committed. Why he dug his nails
into his flesh until the sanguine blood fell.

It was, again, an act of defiance. Against the pain that surely ravaged his soul, that swirled around my
presence, palpable and black, and left me relieved I had never endured it first-hand. He caused physical pain
to cancel out, in some way, his shattered emotions and their agony.

And then there was the guilt; he drew his own blood in this fashion for another reason, in honor of that evil
presence acknowledged as Guilt. A small price he paid, decreeing and carrying out the punishment in the
night amongst these alleys, but a price nonetheless, one of his choosing. It was a measure of penance to face
whatever guilt he was facing. 

At least, that’s what I believed him to be doing. My instincts in the matters were never quite positive and
infallible; but they were close. My senses were true to me, and it just remained for my interpretation.

And my interpretation was of his defiance, against the internal pain and the cruel, dark guilt.

So I would watch him, every time they all four passed, clench his hands, tighter and without fail, until they
bled. Until the scarlet droplets of blood, the cruelest of rubies, fell to the damp pavement and burst,
shattered, invisible to all eyes but mine. Invisible to the other three, the other three which he will never show
his wounds to.

The others will never know.

/ Four shapes dancing for devil’s laud /
/ Four shadows casting a dark façade /
/ Forward and swift, /
/ kill and be done, /
/ Four shapes in blood, join promenade. /

Him.

The one with emerald eyes like mine, with eyes that seem lazy, but are quick to search. Eyes like mine.

He always walks last; from my profile view, I am always presented with the white cross on his arm. Curious
that it should be white, a cross. And yet, somehow, it was fitting. That contradicting insight was courtesy,
once more, of my instincts and impressions, the things I picked up from the waves that radiated from these
four souls.

He was the one who bore no weapon of killing that I could see, bore nothing to drip with blood. Yet there
was still the sense of killing about him; I sometimes wondered what his implement was.

He was the tallest, his strides were long and quick. But there was a rhythm to them, a saunter. He walked
with the hint of a slouch, yet maintained a positive aura of gracefulness. Perhaps the most like myself and my
kin.

Within him, too, there burned a sorrow; something from the past, something he would not let himself forget,
even though part of him wanted to. That part of him screamed for release, for an escape from this
self-induced torture; it was loud enough that I heard it. It heard it on the currents that ran from the soul to
the air, heard it and was saddened.

But there was within him, also, a hope. A different sort from the third silhouette, the young one. It was
hidden, even from himself; but I saw it, sensed it. I knew it was there. It took the form of a bluish light,
hovering just outside the range of my vision. I had faith in it.

Still him.

As the lanky one strides by, my eyes dance again to his mouth, intent. The lips are parted, moving. He is
speaking, silently but surely, as he always does. I can sometimes hear, on those same currents of air.

/ ... ave Maria... /

Words that scatter, that I hear in brief murmurs. Most of the time, it is a muddle that just surrounds my
senses, comforts me, like the choirs of angels, dim yet reassuring.

/ ... forgiveness of sins... /

He was praying.

/... blessed be... /

Whispering, on the magic of silence.

/ ... for I have sinned ... /

Confessing.

/ Amen /

I heard those words, and I understood his white cross. Knew it for it’s paradox, accepted it for it’s purity. I
listened to him pray, was comforted by his faith that even he was not always aware he contained. I heard.
But only I.

The others will never know.

/ Four shapes rise, four shapes lack /
/ Four figures break, four figures crack /
/ Faith upon sin, /
/ glue upon heart, /
/ Four figures leave, fade to black. /

Four.

They’re gone now; the four silhouettes disappeared into the darkness, from which they come, into which
they always must go. Inevitable. Deadly.

Their scents remain, though, a passing of what was here, what they’re feeling, what I have felt, endured with
them. Only a whisper of the emotions, but still there, still true. This alley will never be the same.

But they are gone now.

I turn, lashing my tail with the curiosity that never leaves me, with the curiosity those strange four
continually inspired. I perceive that with them there is a kinship; perhaps others of my kind\ would feel it. I
think they would.

Moving with agility named for my kind, I move through the darkness, flowing like a stream of whispers. I
scale the fence in silence, back to my perch, to my world of night.

The air is silent again, and around me the emotions flow in currents of the breeze, the elements of life come
together at night. The four figures a passing occurrence, yet those four figures a constant, of everything I
sense in them.

Sadness.

Regret.

Sin.

Hope.

Darkness.

/ Four figures leave, fade to black. /

Return to the Sitting Room to read another fine tale?