Untitled - Prologue

Want to write a book someday, thought it best to just start writing and see where it leads. Hopefully it makes sense/finds some sense of direction along the way, and hopefully you enjoy it.

It was dark.

Not the kind of dark that settles over a city ready to sleep, as if it falls from the sky like snow.

Nor was it the kind of dark that drifts through the streets as if it were mist, swallowing everything it can wrap its fingers around, leaving it blind. The kind that taps on your windows, whispering to let it in so it can drink the last bit of light from the candles that keep that dark at bay.

 

No, it was the kind of dark that settles on your shoulders. Not firmly, but just enough to know that if you were noticed by any passer-by they would leave you undisturbed, lest you were someone looking to start something more than just a conversation. It was the kind of dark where shadows follow you in the corners of your eyes. Bright enough to see your surroundings, as the moons in the sky were accompanied by enough stars to cast a gentle glow over the dusty dirt roads, but dark enough that you would be nothing more than just a silhouette.

 

You see everything is made in parts. Somethings more fractured than others, and others more simple than most. And in that sense there is beauty in both; the complex and the simple, for they say that to understand all of somethings parts is to understand that thing entirely. So for tonight, the night was made of only three.

It was dark.

It was quiet.

It was late.

 

For most this would be enough reason to settle down indoors and spend the night with their loved ones. But for the small pockets of people whom happen to be awake during nights like these; the homeless, the gamblers, the gangs and the lonely, only three things happen could happen.

 

You drink, until your blind or until the world bends beneath your feet.

You fall in love, as the quiet of the night and the softness of the stars can pull even the loneliest of man’s heartstrings.

Or you kill a man. But only if he deserves it. For murder is saved on nights when dark flows like mists, but justice is best served when men are drunk, or when their hearts are vulnerable from the gentle tug of stars long away, or from thoughts soon to be long forgotten.