Jake liked to watch the snow fall...As a child he had always marvelled over the majestic descent of those little, white crystals, one by one, side by side, dancing and twirling faster and faster - and yet, so slow - as they trailed languidly along the cold, glass surface of his bedroom window. When it was very late in the evening, he would often find himself wondering how such small snowflakes could so easily clutter together and become one as they covered the entire grounds of the estate, the roofs, the chimney, and even now, though he understood that it wasn't a magical spectacle as he had imagined, but simple complicated nature, he still loved to gaze upon the first silver-shimmering tumble of the year.
And just that - the fall, the beginning, the first forming of that white blanket of innocence, of purity - clean and perfect...and oh so beautiful.
Many years ago, as an unknowing little boy, he had loved to play in it. Back then, he had taken great pleasure in rolling limp and boneless around in all the pale, powdery softness, always coming to a rest on his back to spread his arms and legs wide and create an image of purity himself; or to build a snowman with his friend and father. Even if his tiny body was too weak and restless to move the heavy balls of snow around. All he really could do was stand by and watch in utter awe as they created a tall, impressive statue out of something so fragile.
He had not minded either to see all of it pass, melt, and disappear after his mother had explained to him (when he had been upset right after his first white December) that it would always come back the following year. He had not even minded the gross, blubbery, off-brown substance it turned into as the temperature rose gently with time, unable to see any sort of significance into this, innocent as he himself was.
Was...
Jake now, was older and wiser, slightly taller, stood, right cheek pressed against one of the windows in his bedroom, his still-small hand curled up and resting against the glass, to watch the first snow of the year come to rest upon the ground. Beautiful as it were - still, he stood with an icy expression and a knot in his stomach, whilst he stared, with something sort of a jealousy forming beneath his ribs.
He, he thought, was quite like the snow himself. When he had been young, he had been as pure and untarnished as first snowfall, innocent and bright; and then had come that time like snow, unconcious and helpless as if under carriage wheels, under the burning heat of the sun, he had been soiled, ruined - broken.
He had been played with, like he was a ragdoll to be played with, just a defenseless little thing...left gross, dirty, and crushed.
Closing his eyes, Jake shivered, heart pounding unevenly within his throat as he tried to regain some of his dignity and composure. He knew, like any other, that remembering, wondering, and thinking was going to do him any good, and yet, he could not withhold himself from precisely doing that.
He liked it when the snow fell - liked it and hated it from the very depths of his tiny being. He hated it because he to, fell; fell from grace, from standing even, unable to feel completely worthy again.
Opening his eyes and leaning back, he gazed at his reflection (for the dark night had turned the window into a bad imitation of a mirror) and watching his troubled expression calm before melting back into unease when he really looked and saw the markings upon his face, could nearly see the brand on his shoulder blades even though it wasn't even reflected.
He would never be beautiful again.
He would never be pure again.
he felt so dirty, sullen, and weak, trembling as not only at the thought of blood, heritage, and or out of anger, but also from shame coursing through his veins like a wild, unrestrained river, unaffected by the cold. He hated it - he hated himself, he hated life; for life was so fake, because it wasn't good, happy, or wonderful at all. All he ever heard were lies.
Life was fake, snow was fake, beauty was fake.
And everyone lied.
Even so, they tried really hard to cover up that what roamed in worlds below with fair layers of maners and parties, sparkling chandeliers and soft, flowing dresses, blooming flowers and all the gold and silver one could wish for. It was no use; Jake had lifted the veil, he has seen all the horror that hid beneath, such thing could never be unseen and he would not - could not - will not - believe those pretty white lies again.
Even when Andrew gently caressed his brow with his gloved fingertips, flattered him like a servant ought to, trying to contradict his Master's worries with words of suprising kindness, even when the servant insisted that he does not lie, Jake still did not believe him.
He simple wasn't beautiful - how could he be? And he wasn't kind.
He was none of those things.
Sometimes he wondered if he was anything, at all.
He caught a stray tear between his lashes, blinking rapidly, and forced himself away from the glass. Leaving the scenery for what it was, he sought out the warmth of his covers and the comfort of his goose-feathered pillows, pressing his face into the expensive linens, and willed himself to sleep.
Perhaps tomorrow....more troubling thoughts will rage within his head....what will Jake do if he gave in? Only time can tell....
End.
