The snow fell quietly. The two men quietly looked at each other, their minds quietly turning, shifting, grinding against a rag-tag group of emotions. The houses around them, stretching on indefinitely as phantoms in either direction along the road, watched the two figures amongst the silent, falling snowflakes. Behind one man was an open door, and light flooded out into the cold night, where it was quickly stifled and held back and appeared merely as a war, distant hearth against impersonal and despondent grays and blacks. In this door of this house stood a thin woman's figure and a vaguely boyish lump held against her hip, silhouetted hard against the warm, yellow light.
Love, hate, disappointment. Tears glistened in the two pairs of reddening eyes.
"I can't let you in," said the older one. He wore a grey robe. His noble nose was red from the cold, and called attention away from his large blue eyes and white, sparse hair. His mouth was drawn in a hard line, and his clenched jaw formed an unmoving line, attempting to mask the turmoil in his eyes with determination.
The other man whimpered. He was younger, yes. He was wearing gear more suited to the weather. A grey coat drawn about him and a pair of jeans over another pair of jeans over long underwear which was soaking wet. His black hair was messy, unwashed and standing up in a vaguely stylish way. His reddening eyes were blue, also. The same shade as the other man's.
"Do you still love me?" said the younger man.
"I still love you," said the older man, his sleeve raising to wipe something from his cheek. He sniffled. "Your brother, though. He looked up to you. You were his God."
"I know," whispered the younger man, "I suppose after what I did."
"Yes, after what you did. We've taken you back countless times." The older man swallowed back more tears and opened his mouth to say something. But then closed it.
There was a pregnant pause. The men shifted quietly. The younger one fingered a small plastic bag filled with white powder in his one pocket. He began to sob quietly in the cold. The freezing, freezing cold.
"You have to understand, son. Please." said the older man.
"I do. I do." sobbed the younger man. Tears streamed down his face now, cooling on his cheeks.
"Come back clean," said the older man, straining with difficulty, "Then maybe you could..." the sentence hung in the frigid air, and died.
A howling wind flew through the street, and with it another gust of cold. It continued, a raging, frozen river in mid-air, whisking the snowflakes sideways and along the icy current.
The old man shivered. It was cold. Sorrow filled him. The two looked at one another. The wind picked up. They became grey figures in the snow. The old man wanted to run and embrace the younger one and cry. And the young man wanted to run and embrace the older one. And to sob. And to be forgiven. And to forget all of it, the white powder, the women. The trap of modern life.
But instead, the old man nodded. "I'll see you" he croaked, and began to walk back along the walkway, one shoulder up against the wind. He was hurriedly preparing himself to face his family.
The younger man began to walk along the road, against the roaring wind, the way he had gone. He needed to find a quiet, dry place so that he could begin to empty the powder-filled bag in his pocket.
Love, hate, disappointment. Tears glistened in the two pairs of reddening eyes.
"I can't let you in," said the older one. He wore a grey robe. His noble nose was red from the cold, and called attention away from his large blue eyes and white, sparse hair. His mouth was drawn in a hard line, and his clenched jaw formed an unmoving line, attempting to mask the turmoil in his eyes with determination.
The other man whimpered. He was younger, yes. He was wearing gear more suited to the weather. A grey coat drawn about him and a pair of jeans over another pair of jeans over long underwear which was soaking wet. His black hair was messy, unwashed and standing up in a vaguely stylish way. His reddening eyes were blue, also. The same shade as the other man's.
"Do you still love me?" said the younger man.
"I still love you," said the older man, his sleeve raising to wipe something from his cheek. He sniffled. "Your brother, though. He looked up to you. You were his God."
"I know," whispered the younger man, "I suppose after what I did."
"Yes, after what you did. We've taken you back countless times." The older man swallowed back more tears and opened his mouth to say something. But then closed it.
There was a pregnant pause. The men shifted quietly. The younger one fingered a small plastic bag filled with white powder in his one pocket. He began to sob quietly in the cold. The freezing, freezing cold.
"You have to understand, son. Please." said the older man.
"I do. I do." sobbed the younger man. Tears streamed down his face now, cooling on his cheeks.
"Come back clean," said the older man, straining with difficulty, "Then maybe you could..." the sentence hung in the frigid air, and died.
A howling wind flew through the street, and with it another gust of cold. It continued, a raging, frozen river in mid-air, whisking the snowflakes sideways and along the icy current.
The old man shivered. It was cold. Sorrow filled him. The two looked at one another. The wind picked up. They became grey figures in the snow. The old man wanted to run and embrace the younger one and cry. And the young man wanted to run and embrace the older one. And to sob. And to be forgiven. And to forget all of it, the white powder, the women. The trap of modern life.
But instead, the old man nodded. "I'll see you" he croaked, and began to walk back along the walkway, one shoulder up against the wind. He was hurriedly preparing himself to face his family.
The younger man began to walk along the road, against the roaring wind, the way he had gone. He needed to find a quiet, dry place so that he could begin to empty the powder-filled bag in his pocket.
