Empty Hands and Empty Pockets


He slouches in the background with arms clutched around himself as if what's left will be taken away.  Two nikes faded and tattered, ragged jeans resting above his ankles, and a red shirt two sizes too big and emblazoned with "Just do it" is all that intervenes between him and the frigid November darkness.  He has empty hands and empty pockets.

The glimmer of her rhinestone-studded shoes is visible before the rest of her dark silhouette.  Emitting an air of indifferent confidence, she waits cloaked in cashmere and earmuffs which appear as pink as sticky, post-chewed bubblegum.

His whimper is barely audible despite the stillness of the night.

Her whistling pierces the darkness disruptively like the sudden clatter of silverware against the floor.

His eyes brim with the hollow hunger of those hunted and haunted by fear.

Her gaze flits uninterested and bored in search of entertainment.

The thin veil of darkness is all that conceals the two from each other.

He is cold.  She feels stuffy.  His hands and pockets are dirty and empty; her manicured hands finger the lipstick in her pocket.  He is living without - without comfort, sufficient food, or luxuries; yet, she, too, is plagued by an existence devoid - devoid of purpose and fulfillment.

Both - separated only by the cloak of blackness leftover when light took its leave - are empty and enshrouded by a deep darkness - a darkness within themselves.
There are trapped
where light has left them broken, hurting, wandering, alone
and
suffocating in an existence
trapped
by
darkness.

Where is the light?

© 2014 Deborah Hope Shining

0 comments

I definitely don't want this to be a monologue. What are your thoughts? Questions? Ideas?