by C. S. Raine
Within the night is the terrifying cold – crippling, almost-numbing, to the point of inexistence. The only thing that makes you feel anything, something, is the touch – feather-light, a caress – of that old friend and enemy, that devilish silver. It coaxes you to respond, seduces you to brush skin against its thin edge and draw sweet red wine, lines of crimson. Before you know it, you are writing novels – the story of life, your life – or at the brink of death, as walking on the edge of this perfect stranger brings you just a bit towards that cliff that has always been at the back of your mind—that dreaded fall of your humanity, or what is left of it. And with that touch, each line, is a step towards that story's ending. Do you take a deep breath, close your eyes and take the leap? Or do you turn around, walk away and return to reality – back to the mediocre un-life and unfeelingness? Or perhaps, there is another choice, something more along the lines of a "happy ending," as they so love to call it? That "happily ever after" that seem to only exist in fairy tales for the children? But there are no "happy endings." There is nothing gleeful about the inevitable finish line. The walk, run, sprint or even crawl along that route may have a glimmer of sunshine, a fleeting sense of hope, but in all actuality, it is but the end. There is nothing after it. Nothing follows. It's always "best before the expiration date." There is no "light at the end of the tunnel." There is only that – The End.