I want to apologize for the fact that it takes me a hell of a long time to update anything.
This is another short little Constantine musing I wrote to pair with the previous one. However, while that one takes place as he dies again, this one takes place in that moment in the move where he steps outside on the little balconey at his apartment. Hopefully, since I finished this one, I can finish the third one in the series and then I will actually have completed a multi-chapter story. Wowee!
No, seriously, I want to apologize for never finishing anything. I'm really trying. Thanks to all of you who still read my stories anyway! You all help me keep my self-esteem and sanity! Please drop a little note of review! Thanks!
He didn't want friends.
They reminded him of those nasty little demons, somewhere in the lesser ranks, that liked feeding off politicians. Frankly, anyone who could say the phrase "that's what friends are for" with a smile was more insane than the people already possessed.
He definitely didn't want lovers, or a wife. The former built their relationship on sex, which he'd pretty much sworn off after a few more interesting torments he'd gone through in those eternal two minutes. The later always wanted some kind of commitment, like coming home early or feeding the cat. Or maybe getting a decent job.
He didn't want family, or counselors, or even neighbors who actually know anything about him. He didn't want any people to cluster around him, asking questions that had no answers they would believe, demanding responsibilities he had no intention of fulfilling if he didn't feel like it, questioning his last threads of sanity until he wanted to go to hell just to get away from other fucking people.
They say Hell is other people.
Were They right?
He didn't know. He could remember so much of those two minutes that he wanted to purge from his mind and soul. There was noise that ripped apart steel plates, but there was also silence so deafening it chilled the fires of the damned. There was heat that burned and scorched, but just behind that there was the freezing cold of reality, waiting to tear you to shreds. There was pain and suffering, yes, but pain alone is nothing. Pain can only be defined by joy.
Not for nothing, he thought, are Ecstasy and Agony twins.
They're lurking right there, right on the border of reality. Thousands of them, less than a atom's width away, always surrounding each and every single human, whispering, murmuring, speaking in voices that clutter my thoughts and crowd my mind. Angles, devils, demons, saints, each speaking in a different voice, each voice adding to a hundred thousand others to make a cacophony of sound that I can't push away, can't forget the memories, can't forget the undeniable, unshakable truth of my empty façade of a life . . .
The salty, slightly chilled breeze brought him back to reality. To the frail steel railing, the pale white sun, the creeping shadow of the adjacent building threatening to steal the last warmth from his position, leaving him at mercy to the cold winds, with no light to balance it out.
He looked down, all those stories, to the cold hard ground below. Where the sky balanced the earth, where sun was balanced by impenetrable darkness, and where his life could be balanced by death.
And, as usual, he turned his back on that last balance. Gathered the courage to keep pushing against the forces of equality, forging his way through an unfair and uncertain life.
As he closed the window behind him, he was left in the silence of the apartment. It balanced nicely with the absence of the cold, whipping winds, the honk of car horns, and the never-ending noise of the city outside.
He liked being alone.
It balanced nicely with the fact that he was never alone.