Pale

The sky was a pastel blue, as he woke up to a diffused sunrise. Out on the street, muted glows from the ovens fought to wrestle it away from the clutches of a charcoal night. Another day began in an anemic existence, where he'd trudge on to the factory and take over the wax molding from the night shifters. White hot wax in, cold white candle out. Wax in, candle out. In, out. And so the day would fade away. Come sundown, the pallid soul would find itself in the shop adjoined, selling the produce. Then at twilight, he'd close shop, drop the keys into the fair, pudgy hands of his bourgeoisie master and slink back to his dreary quarters for the night. But before you shower him with your pity, know this that he was at peace with this existence and liked it just so – bleached. In fact, he abhorred the opulent life, bursting at seams with pageantry of colors, which was everyone's pursuit.

Then came an evening, when the onslaught of night was decimating the wee twilight, a dame entered the shop. A dame not in the royal pompous sense of the word, but a dame in character, appearance and aura. Her perfectly even angular face, as white and soft as fresh fallen snow, bearing deep set eyes with honey-oak irises sitting majestically on top of a Greek nose and soft pink lips, was as beautiful as he had ever seen. There was a hollowness in her face, a lost look in her eyes which entranced him and suddenly he found himself gravitating towards her, feet moving of their own accord, waxy fingers reaching out. “Hurry now, dear child, the hour is late!” His reverie, her trance, then broken by the shrill cry of an unseemly bulbous woman, she asked seven tall white candles of him. Overjoyed to fulfill her request, ignoring the agitated cries of long standing customers, he immediately placed the asked goods noiselessly in her delicate hands. However, his passion and intrigue got the best of him and he asked, “Why so many, fair lady?” To which the damsel tearfully replied, “Do you not see my black robes, young sir? Here are your shillings and excuse me now as I have a vigil to stand.” With hurried steps out the door, that beautiful moon waned into the night. For the first time in his existence, he became aware of his heart, for it beat loud and proud above his rumbling stomach and crackling lungs.

Drawn to her as he was like moths to a flame, he'd go about town every night after closing, hoping to catch a peek, a twinkle of that beautiful starlight. For someone neglected and ignored all his life by everyone who’s supposed to mean something to one, going about quiet and unnoticed was second nature. Nevertheless there were days when he'd miss a step, or take an extra, tear his gaze away too late, or cast a look only to find her watching him. And in these situations, he'd either flee, or when even flight would not remain an option, would utter some droll, mindless mutterings. The dame, to her innocence’s credit, would regard these as coincidences and pay them no special heed. Why would she after all, when there were more important affairs to direct her attention and energies to? The ashen dreary hold of sadness on her was finally loosening up, and through the abating clouds of gloom, rays of happiness, promise and prosperity were shining at her. Joy like this is rarely hidden and he too took note of it, but not how you and I would. The radiance he witnessed when he first laid eyes on her, the cool of that glow was now ebbing out to warmer shades. The cool twilight star was turning into a fierce scarlet sun. He couldn't for his life fathom why, and thus he vowed not to rest until the cause is determined and a remedy is made. Remedy, for he considered this sudden departure from her true angelic colors the marks of an ailment.

Some more days of slithering, slinking and snooping ensued and at last he found out about her betrothal. And just in time, for the day of this reckoning was also the day of her nuptials. Consumed in a tumultuous frenzy of rage, passion, resentment and obsession, he steeled his nerves just enough to creep inside the bride’s dressing parlor and hid patiently behind the chest of dresses and ornaments. Hours passed by and when the bride’s attendants had been through with her, they left her alone for a few moments allowing her to collect her thoughts and calm down her restlessness a little before the graceful glide down the aisle would begin. At that moment he crept out from behind his hideout and declared in cold menacing words, “This nuptial cannot be. This is not who you are. I will not permit this.” Looking at the ghostly cretin standing in front of her, all blood drained from her face in horror, to which he smiled, obviously pleased with the result. However soon all the blood rushed back in a bout of anger and indignation and she spewed at him, “And who are you to tell me, what can be and what not, who I am and who not? No one seeks your permission nor blessing, so away with you, lest you want to spend the remainder of your days in the jailhouse!” Seeing this only provoked his rage, reflected in his eyes, she opened her mouth and had barely let out the preludes to a scream that she felt his sallow hands grabbing her throat and in the next moment felt his other hand clamping down on her nose and mouth.

“Why do you struggle?” he thought. “I’m only restoring you to your former glorious state, and in that angelic forms, more beautiful than any wonder in the cosmos, you'll be with me and you'll be mine!” Soon the strife stopped, and finally he laid her down. Ivory woman in an alabaster gown. Cold. Pale.

“See! Now you're beautiful again!”