Empty writing

(Lol, the story was simply a rambling I did, a practice idea I took up, to simply start writing, and let it work out how it wants. I think, you can see three or some variations in it; a vampire like taste, an older man, or some kind of creature, and then finally, the teenage child, committing suicide because he does not fit in, and poor grades… Lol, I think. Enjoy, I hope, I might yet write some story I actually know what is happening in it before hand.)


It was not a quiet night, born unto enthusiasm in lack, or the cold, and sterile steel of roving vehicles, of man made contraptions, devoid of such mortality as that by which they where formed. Imprecise hands, that coated them in such sinful nature as animation, as life, and force, that all things afterward quickly fade, are broken, and twisted from the very instant of their birth. Surprising still, it was not a night of carnal passions, intimacy gifted reprieve, shadowed, by the passage of such still teething crowd, as they stood before soft white stone, tortured bones of the earth on which they had paved, to please torpid natures.
Nay, it was a night of festival, of many, wearing all one mask; that of tourist, of mindless automaton in the midst of equals. Be they of differing skin, of thin, or obese nature, all alike, all muttering, yelling or silent amidst the distant rumor of voice. Anticipation at height tonight, tasted in the very winds that crept unto fabrics unaware, and tousled them as best thin reach allowed it, as best as the proximity of its victims could allow make it. The hum of hive collective, as saturated with person, the earth itself seemed wait, taste upon an unknown source, and eagerly devour what might be offered of it.
“They do not even know, of what they wait for.” it spoke aloud, shifting shadow to dance gaily over rooftop. That situated above glowing circle, a measure of time cut into faint sliver, it seemed itself a good inhuman, dark and reserved for those few whom might tread in black heavens. That reflected in his eyes, where the lights of the city, the fears, and worries of all whom stood beneath him, and he to revel in them, owners unknowing.
“That they idle about, hidden is such resorts as please their intents, as keep them safe, the long dark night. Almost amusing, where it not for such lack of individuality, a crass and unwitting failing that is by their whole race, of circumspect value.” A judge then, beneath soft blue eyes, mirror and door into a world far more alit then what he has been allowed. Black hair, to frame tasteless luxuries, somber attire gaily flouting pale skin, where in small it is revealed. Patron of tonight’s environment, he could not but long, to walk again, in the idiosyncrasies of ignorance. Long to take step as fools beneath, whom thought this night simply one of centuries celebration, and not harbor to far more brutal event. Witnesses, to a death that might have little effect upon them, as they knew not who would be broken. That never had they met the victim, or even seen him from afar, and yet he to make them a person, even in the end of breath and song.
His own fall, of course.
Perhaps in a time, where violence had been his passion, he might have had another join him, another walk with him, into a sure footed fall from what grace dead flesh reserved. There were no ends to those whom would be seduced by such a thought, or would do it, simply by its suggestion. Beasts of field, and sky, who would have harkened to the notion, that they might not need die alone. It was a personal occasion though, and perhaps not one deserving of another’s insight. That should he find in himself enough strength, he would not hear another voice, lewdly enacting a similar taboo.
It was, in end, his choice. He had no family, no other to bespeak a reason he not do this, and that was very much part of it. That since he was child, he had often come unto such silent vigils as this, watching the world role away, and knowing it all beyond him. Out of his reach, in some slight, but important way. That he had missed an event, failed to receive some gift at birth, and simply fallen on hard times. A Goth, it was supposed, or some foolish romantic that had no real station, no real place in life. Never in love, never important enough for a job beyond retail, he had resigned himself to this kind of end. He had no taste, for alcohol, no taste for the drugs that had claimed so many others like him. No, his love was not even pain, drawing sharp, imperfect steel against the cool of his flesh, feeling the pulse, the ebb and flow of his heart simply slip from him, awaken in him a taste of life, and clarity.
No, he had been born into better circumstance then that. A good family, a warm home and ideals that might follow suit with what he did now. Dishonor had no place, in that form of affair. The second reason, of two, that he made this choice. That of only eighteen years, he had come to a decision few made, or had already gone to earlier. That from his father’s side, traced easily through paths of success, or self-forced annexation into death, was the heritage of this way of life. This choice, that made it a simple end. Death by blade, when one failed to serve his lord. Death by strangulation, when one failed to die honorably. He had admired, throughout his stilted childhood, such an idea. Been drawn to the old world, but had found to late, like many, the simple truth. That the old world was dead, buried in a city, in layers of concrete and tradition, and meant nothing. A reasoning that had led him to this rooftop. Perhaps, he might not even do it, let the clock strike its twelve, resounding concussions, and simply step away.
It hit then, upon such questioning, a twelfth stroke. With heavy breath, and careful, resigned control, he stepped off.