Colours amidst the black.
A petrol puddle—no, the smell of roses.
Beiges, reds, and golds streak the vision. Bright and full. Sounds of happiness and drink surround me. I feel full, then my eyes pause and narrow. A boy.
I see a boy with bronze skin, as vivid as the world around him. But something is different. He’s different from the other people.
He’s striking. Hypnotising. Unusual.
His hair is black and wavy, and with limbs too long, too big, so unfitting, he looks like he must be nearing adolescence. The boy stands in the midst of a crowd at the edge of a wide road.
Black and white pebbles draw geometric shapes below leather sandals.
With a soft mouth too large for his face and eyes that are filled with delight, the boy watches a long procession. Joyful music fills the street, and the scent of spices and grilled meats hangs heavy in the air. Luxuriously dressed people carry flowers in every shade imaginable inside large wicker baskets. They throw petals and sweets over the bystanders. The boy jumps and catches a peeled date. He devours it in one bite.
The crowd vanishes. Night falls. The sounds of joy are faint in the distance.
There is only the boy. He’s sitting in the shadows of an alley. Alone.
The light of a lantern. The sounds of footsteps. The thin man appears with a false smile and dead eyes.
I hear the cackling again, a sound so vicious, it makes my head want to crack in two.
Colours melt, but no image appears, only the sound of a whip cracking.
Too many times.
A storm of choked whimpers. Gleeful laughs. Snapping and cutting, threatening to never stop. I feel each lash as if it were lacerating my own flesh.
Stop.
Please,I moan.
And then, the black haired boy, only bigger now, almost a man. He lies breathless in a pool of his own blood. His back is cut open, angry welts of bone and flesh. The dead-eyed man pulls him into his lap, his thin legs barely tall enough to make space for the boy’s body. He lifts his face and kisses him on the cheek, whispering lies tightly wrapped in love and devotion. The black hair falls from his blood-stained brow.
Lazarus.
Sad eyes stare into the man’s face. Empty.
A throne inside a palace. Walls covered in vibrant murals. Shades of blue.
The thin man doesn’t move atop his throne, sitting there, held immobile by a spell. His hair is gone, but his face is the same.
Dead eyes and mean mouth.
Lazarus lies at his feet. Spasms of agony contort his body. His lips are open in a soundless scream, and his eyes are filled with horror. The man smiles down at him as if it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. I don’t want to look…I—a tomb.
A tomb that tugs at memories.
Remember?
The thin man sits on the same throne, but his skin is bleached like ancient marble. A dark cave. Illuminated hands.
Lazarus bent down on one knee, his forehead almost touching the man’s decaying feet.
The scent of spices. Warm. Comforting. Familiar.
“Bring me a human,” the man commands.
