Metamorphosis

“You’re looking quite marvelous tonight… The trees are elated to see you, what with your dramatic arrival and all. They seem to be shivering.” The man let out a faint chuckle as his wilted skin reflected the pale moonlight.

That pale moonlight— she shone most nights, whether she was visible or not from his cramped, striated window. He knew she was there, somewhere, watching him, smiling. He had grown quite fond of her in the last few years. It had taken him a while, but one day something snapped within him. He ears were open to her gentle whisper, his eyes widened at her hidden radiance. That’s when it all began…

Mark’s gazed shifted away from her elegance and into the stark, damp area he found himself in. None of it mattered to him, really. The only thing that gave the room any value was her blessing, her faint glimmer, seemingly unaffected by the stifling air. The gleam revealed just how dull the room was, reflecting only on the all too familiar chrome faucet handle and the small trinket Mark used to hold so dear to him. It now lay shattered in pieces.

Was it a locket? Or maybe a watch? Mark could no longer remember. It was from his father—the only one who continued to harbor faith in Mark.

The gold metal casing had been worn to a grimy bronze by the handling. Its chain had been replaced several times, and now the glass that was cracked with such agony not long ago was now in innumerable pieces.

Mark’s expression was unaffected by this. Not this Mark. This Mark was different. He had changed—a metamorphosis of spirit and mind. Mark was impressive to say the least. He had not once turned his back to question his decision. Not once doubting his new ways. Not one ill feeling ever harbored towards his beloved Mistress—his savior, God, and only friend.

The brunette took a long breath in through his nostrils, and as he exhaled, the blood that had caked there fell like snow onto the contrasted uniform. As it fell, one of his many enemies, a cloud, came and interrupted his adoration, shrouding the monochromatic room in temporary blackness.

As his eyes adjusted, he noticed a light shining from down the hall, forcing Mark to shut his eyes. Noise. Nothing but artificial pollution used to keep her away. His hand fidgeted with the end of his sleeve where he had worn the fabric loose.

Mark had lost track of the days. He used to keep a record. He wrote it all down. He wrote everything down. But he let go of that. He filtered out any form of record keeping, of morality, of justice. Mark hated that word, justice. It was nothing more than a definition, a set of letters that were designed to convey a certain image in one’s mind, but failed miserably in doing so for Mark—someone who had been destroyed by "justice." He could never again believe in the right and the wrong, the good and the bad. He was sick of it— all of it.

He could no longer make up or down of the time, or of the days, or of himself, or of the guards. No one mattered. They didn’t matter; the inmates didn’t matter; he didn’t matter. All that mattered was her. Nothing else consumed his mind.

It goes without saying that his loyalty, trust, and dedication did not go unrewarded. She would send him whispers—faint at first. Then they grew louder. She spoke to him some, here and there, giving him advice when it came to dealing with the unfortunate hand that life had given him.

“The Sun brings life and all its misfortunes… I simply guide those wandering through the darkness, those brave enough to look past the lies of the Sun.” Her words worked through him as they always did. Was it the hushed tone that only Mark could hear? Was it the gentle, promising phrases that graced her lips? Mark didn’t need to care—more noise.

Mark and his new-found love had been having more involved conversations than usual after Mark’s brother had come to visit. Mark tried desperately to refute his elder, telling the guards to leave him alone, and then shouting a slew of profanities at his blood, trying to avoid more noise.

But Mark could not get away. There were so many words, so many sounds, sights, smells that distracted him from the comfort of his cell with his little window and his empty thoughts. He was stuck, the Sun was shining, that dreaded Sun—full of the light people fill their worlds with, their notions of “happiness,” “love,” “trust,” “honesty...”