Demon Stories

Diana: All the Rainbows in the Sky, 1867, India

Diana

All the Rainbows in the Sky

1867, India

He is on the roof again. The light green tiles underneath him, as he stares up into the sky. 

"What are you thinking of?" I ask, taking his caramel hand in my milk hand.

"You."

"Just me?"

"Just you."

He doesn't look at me, just feels me. Feeling my warmth as I feel his warmth. Staring at him for a while, I discover his true meaning. His meaningful look at the sky.

"No, Javana."

He doesn't respond again. We've had this conversation many times before.

"No," I say again, but softly, as if I am slowly rolling it towards him as a suggestion.

"I know," he says gently, quietly.

My green eyes join his golden brown ones up into the sky. There I can see clearly what he sees.

There are a bird's wings up in the clouds of light, rainbow colors and so vibrant, full of life. So many colors, you can not possibly count them all in one life.

My heart wilts in itself as a spent flower, the flower too wet and overexposed to go on. The petals fall away as my tears roll down my face.

His hand is limp in mine. He is dead inside, just like me. 

Up there, where he can't reach, are his wings to life. Yet down here on earth, he grasps the hand of the one being who can help him reach his wings. This one who has wings herself. But I can't help him. I can't give him those wings. He will not be able to fly away, and this bleeds my already dried up heart.

Deep down, he knows why. He knows, no matter how much he reaches for those wings, he isn't meant to have them. Not in this life, not even in the next. Yet, his uplifted eyes are his hope still. 

Just hopefully, down here on earth, for as long as he lives I can share my wings, my love, with him. Give him some semblance of comfort in his sad life, behind these tall familiar walls of stone, his prison, his home. 

We both know, sitting here, how this life we have is within a dream. Yet, maybe by teasing the dream, we can keep the dream living. 

"I am not mad," he says quietly in the gentle voice again.

"You do not understand," I whisper in melancholy.

"I am at peace."

"Oh, Javana," I sigh quietly as he, leaning into him sadly. His long, slender, warm arms wrap around me and I find such pure comfort in their familiar weight. 

But, it is a lie, no matter how much he wishes it was not.

For, as long as his large eyes of shadowed despair extend to the sky, we both know.

In this dream, he will never stop wanting what he can not have. Not even at the end.

And I know only myself, as long as I am here, giving him hope like this, it is not truly a dream. It is a nightmare, the worst kind. The kind where you never wake up, for you are too deep in. Every kiss is another door to open of possibility for him. Every embrace is another hopeful erasure of doubt. 

I can't stand to see him have those eyes full of hope, day after day. But I can't leave him here alone. I can't. That is the part of this nightmare which is mine. My own never-ending dream. I can not give him what he truly wants, and this nightmare of despair makes me want to give up living. For as much as he wishes to have wings like mine, I wish to have these wings be gone from my back. I want to be like him, not have him be like me. 

Silently, drowning in our own individual despair, human and demon, we both stare up into the sky. All the colors in the sky. The wished for possibilities. Never ending. Our dream. Never ending.