Cyrus was the boy who sat on a rooftop, wondering, reaching out in the hopes that something, anything, would reach back.
He found himself doing so often, not out of loneliness, but rather a desire for something more than what was. His life was miserable and cold, but that wasn't what compelled him to try and touch the potential unknown, it was the simple question he would ask himself: "Is this it?"
Was this all life was, to him, or to anyone?
The answer, as always, was not given him.
He let his arm back down.
He hadn't expected anything to happen, of course. He never did.
His life took place in the thick of Russian-American territory, in the city of Chicago. He wasn't a strong kid, so for much of his high school career he had depended on others. His only real friend offered him next to no emotional support, however. She was street-smart and tough, or at least enough to keep others from harassing Cyrus. They had been friends for years, but weren't, now.
Nights like these, sitting atop his aunt's house, staring at the starless city sky, were what gave his life any real meaning. It wasn't that he found meaning in his searching, but rather that every night that he found himself there, he would promise himself again that he would find it, one day. He had only to wait.
For days, weeks, months... The years blurred together, as they always did. He didn't recall having any kind of awakening that led him to feel this way, his life simply grew more and more stale with each passing year, while he grew older and more aware of its lack of substance. Whenever he reflected on years prior, he could only think of a vague idea of what his childhood was like. Until recently, he could scarcely say he even felt alive. Whatever that meant.
Perhaps it wasn't soul-searching that drew him to spend evenings on the roof of his aunt's house, maybe it was merely boredom. He couldn't say, and the more he thought about these things, the more he found himself falling into a spiral of thoughts that only led him back to where he started. He always looked up at the sky, where almost none of the stars could shine through. In spite of his lackluster view, the dark gradient cast by the lights of the nearby city gave him an odd sort of reassurance. He wasn't able to see the stars from where he was, and they weren't able to see him, either. Yet he knew they were there, as bright as they'd ever be.
It was on one of these nights of pondering on the rooftop that the world went wrong.
It wasn't announced by the thunderous booms of a sudden storm or the quakes of a world-shattering earthquake. It came like a thief in the night, quickly and quietly until it was too late to possibly escape it.
Windows all around Cyrus and throughout the city suddenly went dark, one by one, until finally even the light in windows just below him was snuffed out.
Unmoving, petrified, Cyrus watched as the streets all throughout the his neighborhood grew red with heat. Cracks formed in the asphalt and concrete, and from out of those cracks came tongues of flame. Little and gentle at first, then suddenly and without warning, an inferno. Still, he dared not move. He couldn't. He was filled with the unique, overpowering terror of one who understands their life is about to end.
From behind the flames he began to make out the dark shapes of what looked like people, silent and still. They seemed to be staring directly at him, moving almost imperceptibly towards his home. His instincts told him abruptly to run, but he could see nowhere safe besides the rooftops. Rising shakily to his feet, he looked around him. Nowhere was safe from the flames except for his roof and the roofs of the houses nearby.
With no other option, Cyrus made ready to leap to the house next to his. Lit from underneath by the thick flame all around it, the other house appeared not to have a roof at all, but a dark gaping hole.
He readied himself to take the jump to the other house, knowing this could be the end of him. Just like that, without ever knowing why.
He glanced down at the street where the figures stood. They appeared perfectly still amidst the dancing fire, but they were somehow drawing closer. The piercing light of the fire didn't touch the figures, leaving them as dark silhouettes, radiating nothing but malice.
With a tight breath, Cyrus broke into a sprint towards the edge of the roof. In fear and in a sudden determination to survive, he threw himself into the abyss before him.
