he’s silent.
the moon glows teasingly above him, serene and gentle against his shaking form. his hat is tilted downwards over his eyes, shielding them from view, hiding the bleary, distant turmoil under the visor. the wind sways the tall trees around him and pushes through the folds of his coat, calm and delicate. the steady flow of the stream he’s crouched in front of attempts to soothe him. it fails.
three cigarette butts and a half-empty carton lay next to him. the small orange embers of a fourth burning between his lips illuminate his face for a moment as he inhales. he glances down at his reflection in the lake, the picture shifting and changing as the current pushes the water past him and down the hill. he hopes, briefly, desperately, as he watches his reflection stir across the clear liquid, that he’ll catch a glimpse of someone new. someone who isn’t himself—someone who is more sure. someone who is less angry.
“” he asks the water. his voice wavers as he shakes, and smoke rises from his lips. something hot is running down his cheeks. the water doesn’t respond.
“ either of you. ” he begs the stream, to no avail. his gloves are tarnished red. his stomach churns at the sight. his fourth cigarette burns down to the filter and he lets it fall from his fingers, slowly lowering his hands into the water and watching as the red stain lifts from his gloves and travels downhill with the current.
“” he whispers to the stream. he whispers it three times. his knees ache from the position he’s crouched in. he takes in a deep breath, gripping hysterically at the dirt and rocks below the water’s surface. once more for good measure—for the one who wanted to get away from it all, and for the one who wasn’t supposed to be wrapped into all of this in the first place, he cries it out in a hushed tone. “i’m so sorry.”
a gentle hand rests against his shoulder, the shadow of a crescent moon obscures his view, and a new, featherless reflection towers above his own in the water.
“come, jake lockley,” it speaks, tilting its beak up high. its voice, uncharacteristically sympathetic, rings in his ears and wraps around his lungs like a snake to its prey. “we have work to do.”
he blinks, taking one last look at his reflection, holding onto a fraying thread of hope that someone else will rise to the surface.
he’s met with himself, face contorted in agony and internal suffering. everything old, nothing new.
“i do not like to be kept waiting.”
he wipes his face and straightens his shoulders, picking up his carton and hauling himself back up to his feet. as if flipping a switch, he turns to the god—who is watching him with faltering patience, and flashes it a grin.
“lead the way, boss,” he nods, adjusting his cap. the bird turns from him and begins to walk back out into the trees.
the god of the moon basks in the night’s glow, and where a god walks, must follow.
while he trails behind the god’s footsteps, he trudges his way into the deep corners of his mind. there, in the void, in the silence, he calls out to them, hoping the plea will echo out into the vastness long enough that someday, someone will catch the sound.
he leaves it there, letting it bounce around in the dark, and trusts it to break through the barrier.
for now, he pulls his gloves a little tighter, and situates himself in the shadows casted under the light of the moon.