Vivid bursts of color disrupt the dying autumn twilight; hues from all shades contrast the chill of the gray evening sky. The occasional shower of glistening embers rains upon the trampled streets below. Each flickering decay of flame float as fireflies which line the green forests of summer, a season all but a memory in a world set to descend into the onset of winter. Only the dancing fragments of color bring any reminiscence of warmth to the shivering night.
Lively commotion delivers the icy dusk to life; fighting against the biting autumn breeze, glowing streets writhe with people. Mirroring the swarming streets, clusters of vanity stalls attract small crowds of eager pedestrians. The occasional gust of bitter wind threatens to disperse said crowds, but like the crashing of a wave, the torment soon subsides into serenity. Carried along with the air: scents so sweet that sting the nose and the repugnant stench of rotting garbage strikeout, only before too dissipating.
A shadow observes this isolated world of color unbeknownst to the populace below. Far above those dirty streets, with the violent bursts of light so near, rests the silhouette. The slender, fragile figure of a pale young man reflects the radiant colors of the exploding sky. Standing upon a rough stone ledge, he soaks in the turbulent evening. The wind snaps at his clothing and thin limbs, threatening to throw off his balance, yet he does not waver. Against the assault, he inches ever closer, such that the tips of his battered shoes lay open in the air.
Another eruption of flame harasses the serene night, only this boy sees nothing of the vibrant color. His eyes see but a world of gray images, dull and faded. The music of the festival, the explosion of fireworks in the near sky, all muffled as if cotton were placed upon his ears. Not even the frozen bite of wind is felt upon his skin. Only the dull throb of pain is felt from some unknown source: along his chiseled temple, his fragile fits, his clenched fists, or within the clutches of the heart.
A steady drip of crimson, barely visible in the night, falls from his quivering hands. Each drop cascading down his knuckles, falling into a small puddle atop the cracked stone. The sting of tears, likewise to all other feelings, is not felt by his now bloodshot, brown eyes.
Buried deep within his chest, the throb of emptiness gapes his heart; consuming every thought, every breath of air, every heartbeat. This void swallows his soul, taking all color of life with it, leaving nothing behind but the shell of a human.
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Anguishing this emptiness, the boy cranes his elegant neck upward, focusing only on the sad and beautiful moonlight. Draping its pale light like silk across the landscape, the delicate rays of moonlight split the clouds which have begun to quickly gather overhead. One of these stray beams miraculously strikes the boy's face, illuminating him from the darkness he so desperately clung to. In the soft, pale light he is beautiful, as profound as David himself. Unruly, wavy hair flutters along the wind, revealing an elegant face: thin eyebrows, a short yet prominent nose, full but narrow lips, all set upon a sculpted jaw.
This boy is the fallen angel, cast away and dejected by the father. Fated to suffer an eternity of pain, destined to atone for his one sin. Tearfully angry in hatred for the one who cast him out, discarded into this eternal hell. Left only to suffer with hopes of redemption a mere dream.
He is the fallen angel of damnation.
It was at this moment, with his sad face soaking in the beautiful moonlight, that the heavens unleashed their mournful remorse. Thin drops of rain began to fall, light and delicate as the tears which fell down his cheeks. The sheets soaked his clothes and body, but he paid the damp caress no attention. The boy was no longer truly there, separated and detached from the surrounding scene.
In the midst of the now dreary evening, all activity below and in the sky now retired, this frail boy stands completely alone. Head craned towards the heavens, palms open to the rain, bathing in the dull moonlight; the scene is sad and beautiful. A still image lost in time.
Over the muffled trample of rain upon wet cement, a low voice calls out. Indistinguishable from the whisper of thunder in the distance, the voice utters only one word: a name. Unintelligible, carried away on the wind or relentless downpour. A cry for help lifted to deaf ears.
The fallen angel trapped, imprisoned in an eternal night. Every attempt to escape, to relieve himself from this heavy burden is to no avail. He only finds himself slipping further and further into the world of no light, no color. Misery, despair, and desire embrace him as his sole companions.
Standing on that ledge he is no longer the bright adolescent that once was. Remnants of a battered soul are now all that remain in the feeble body. Alone in that great darkness, the boy lost ass sense of himself, all identity washed away in retribution. This eternal night obscures all thought, driving one to the extremes. Only one action can return the light, bringing dawn to this world.
Stumbling around in the darkness, release was found. A way in which he could return to what once was. Deliverance so near, practically in front of him. How desperately he wishes to reach out and grasp hold of that light, to feel its warmth again.
The decision evident, the clearest realization found in that cold hell. Wading through those dark water with heavy steps, the ornate gates of Hell stand open. With the shed of one last fateful fear, lips warped into a devilish grin, he steps forward.