"Choose," he says. I say nothing. I embrace him.
When asked to describe myself, I will usually claim to have black hair. I don't really. My hair is dark; it has some black in it. It also has brown and red and grey in varying shades. It's an uncontrolled mish-mash of colour, clean but untamable. His hair is true black. Less a colour than a complete absence of both colour and light. His hair is long, waist-length, and gathered into a loose ponytail at the base of his neck. It flows out sinuously in the breeze, moving like a living void. I stare, fascinated. His garb is also black, glossy and polished like leather and chromed steel, form fitting and imposing. In contrast, the skin on his hands and his face is startlingly white, blindingly white and ill-defined. His face is unlined, mere hint of a nose, thin tight lips stretched over predator’s mouth, grinning, all teeth, almost cartoon-like in its simplicity. It is hard to focus on his face, hard to comprehend his reality. Only his eyes betray any colour, and they are too colourful, an over-bright, super-saturated green. They are the colour of nuclear waste in a cartoon world. They seem to glow as he gazes at me. He cradles me like a babe in his arms.
"What are you?" I ask him.
"It does not matter now," he replies. "Choose your fate."
I gaze into his too-bright eyes and my pulse quickens. Fresh, bright blood gushes with renewed vigor from the ugly gash on my forearm. I feel a sense of familiarity yet again as I look upon this inexplicable creature. I wonder how long he may have been standing beside me, just over my shoulder, waiting unnoticed. The hail is falling heavily now, pelting the world with renewed violence.
"Will you show me the way?” I ask meekly, "Do you have the answers?" I don't realize I'm speaking until I hear my own voice. He smiles all the wider.
"I am the way, the truth without light."
"I'm dying."
"Believe in me, and though you are dead, yet shall you live." He snorts derisively. The irony is not lost on me. Regardless, all I have left now is curiosity. I've always despised the unanswered question.
"Fine," I say. "Show me."
"You choose me?" he asks. One hint of a barely perceptible eyebrow cocks inquisitively on his strange, supernatural face.
"I choose you," I reply.
He raises the still bleeding wound on my wrist almost reverentially to his lips. His eyes seem aflame as all that is left within me is drained away. The world turns white, except for his eyes. Coolly, with a casual aloofness, he claims his prize. Time stops. I close my eyes.
A moment or an eternity later my eyes fly open. A cold so cold it burns stretches through every vein, every nerve, and every molecule of my being. I taste blood on my lips. My lord and saviour watches over me. He still cradles me in his arms. The ugly gash on my arm is gone.
"Now what?" I ask.
"Now you fly," he says, and tosses me callously from the 19th floor balcony. For a moment, the ground rushes up to meet me. The storm, quieter now, nevertheless rages around me. Sudden, instinctive understanding floods my mind. My direction reverses. I fly. Through the storm I rocket upwards, through the haze and turmoil until I break through the clouds and behold the starry night sky. Moonlight so bright it makes me cry lights the bank of clouds beneath me with a surreal sheen. I am feathered by the moonlight falling down on me. I absorb the night through my skin. The light fills my eyes, fills my mind, fills my heart. The moonlight fills me and becomes my soul and for this one perfect moment, I understand it all.
It is February 25th, 2011, the night that I died.
It is February 25th, 2011, the night that I was born.
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