So Drop Your Gun - Prologue - Part 1
So Drop Your Gun
Prologue
Part 1: 3 years prior to the story's beginning
Grains of sand upon the floor. Tiny pebbles, gold and tan and cream and clear, scattered absently across ceramic, hiding in the white, gleaming against the black. The light would not catch them and throw their hue further than a few feet, if one peered, for the light today was soft and grey, the flaming sun cast no scorch upon the sand, the waves were shrouded in iron and lead. Foam rippled on their crests - the air today was choppy at best - and blasted forth onto the beach, drained of color by the approaching storm, grey foam on grey waves on pale grey sand.
A large expanse of glass brought this view into the background of the room with the tile floor. Movable glass, at that; on hot days when the sun beat down it would slide away into the wall and the soft salt scent of the ocean would wash in, the curtains would flutter and swish in the coastal breeze, and the whole of the room would seem filled with the blue of the waves, the gold of the sand and sun. Strange colors, those, complex. A certain mixture of yellow and white, pale pink and brown, yielded the sand. The sea was blue and green, but oh so picky in the ratio of the two, changing in the most unexpected places, just a cast more green, a bit lighter, and it seemed a different thing altogether.
The room's occupant knew this, as he had attempted, for many long hours, to get exactly these colors down on canvas. What he had managed was... passable.
Grey was not a complex color. Grey was simple in the extreme, perhaps even moreso than the black and white of this room's floor, for grey had no potential for contrast. Reflecting on the color was... depressing. In a world of color, grey was so stark and blank...
Today, such thoughts were more manageable, for the vibrant tones usually prosperous in this place were all washed to grey, and his skin did not stand out. The room's occupant shifted uncomfortably on the floor, attempting to seat his head more comfortably on his arm, eyes moving to another patch of sand grains.
Red was not a complex color either. Brighter than grey, capable of contrast and shade and tint, it still held a basic element, a dominating, organic feel that he could not displace. That he despised. Loathed, hated, abhorred. Could not escape.
His eyes jerked back to the sand, to the grey sky and shore. The storm would be here soon. The rain would fall, and the beach would be turned into another world. A miserable, dreary world, dark and wet and cold, alien and unfitting. 'There's nothing that changes a beach so much as the sky's tears,' he had heard the natives say to tourist after tourist, and it seemed to be true in terms of who he could see walking past his window.
The sky's tears...
A shudder passed through the young man's slim body, he propped his head up on one arm and licked his razor-sharp teeth, each one triangular and viciously pointed. A carnivore's teeth. A killer's teeth. Eyes of honeyed amber made grey-brown in the light shifted once again away from the red, once again to the sand upon the floor. He would need to clean it again soon, what with the sand blown in with every opening of the door and the marks left by his four-toed feet, this was often necessary. He much preferred carpet, which was so much more capable of masking any form of dirt. Tile was... difficult.
The red was in the grout again. Fortunately, it had not pooled this time, there was not enough, or the whole corner would succumb to it. Cleaning that took days.
He was relatively patient, waiting and searching about the room for something to interest him. To an observer, he might have seemed uncomfortable, but the pain was a tolerable level this time, and he shifted only when necessary. His shoulder began to ache from supporting his head and resting on the hard tile, but he knew the wait would not be much longer. The sky was growing steadily darker, a cultured palm tree outside had begun to toss its fronds about a bit more wildly, and the sea had begun to crash in with more determined force.
Andrew once more swept his eyes around the whole room. Small. Bare. Tile and drywall and one battered door nearly off its hinges, across from the sliding glass door through which the seascape entered.
The room was filled with the sound of a single tear.
Andrew turned his eyes again to the outside, more specifically, to the bead of water making its way down the glass that separated it from him. It left a broken, ugly track in its wake, one which he would have to scrub away before he could sleep tonight, unless the rain was still falling, and tomorrow there would be fresh salt encrusted on the glass from the sea breeze. Now, though, was not the time to worry of such things, for the sky had shed a tear.
Another raindrop struck the door, and, haltingly, more joined it. The being in the room still did not move, still waited, though now he had eyes only for the rain. The grey light flickered, danced over skin as smooth as sandpaper.
The spit became a drizzle, the drizzle a spring rain, and then a storm, a downpour, a deluge. Thunder shook the glass door in its metal tracks. The roar of the sky. The sky roared... and it wept.
When he was certain the storm was loud enough to deaden any noise he might make, Andrew rose, stepping carefully over the smeared patch of blood he had left on the floor, and walked up to the door. His eyes looked over the stormy sea, his breath clouded the cold glass. Grains of sand stuck to the soles of his feet.
The door had no lock. It was open, and then it was closed, and the room was empty.