A Rosy Sunset

A Rosy Sunset

There's no warmth in the sky, either, even though the bright pink lingers on the clouds. In the distance their heavy masses have started to relieve themselves of the weight. I can smell the snowfall approaching us.

We should be heading home, but I catch myself leaning against the wall as soon as I've rounded a corner and there's some shelter from the wind. Both wearing t-shirts only, having been to that Muggle pub, we must get home. But I'm too drunk and he's weak, and there's no other way than walking. What a coincidence that he came looking for work tonight. Or could he have come to find me? Perhaps he had heard the news.

There's some stairs here to sit on, too. When I screw up my eyes I can imagine that the cold is turning into sharp chips of glass, hardly hovering over us, turning into blood. My brother's blood.

His blood at those sunrises when I felt desperate, still unable to lick the wounds, still without a warm fur. And he said that - unlike gorgeous sunsets (like this one) - the red on morning clouds heralded better times: at least four weeks to rejoice in his regained body. He did not mind the pain, as it was withdrawing, and he had us beside him. Even though we still had to leave him to maul himself all through the night.

I light a cigarette, and after the first drag I'm going to let it fall to the ground. He knows this is how I smoke when I'm upset. The fag is snatched from my fingers. I can feel the warm pressure against my back. He's huddled behind me, and now I can both smell and hear him, too - inhaling as if he'd been craving for the smoke, even though he used to detest it. He'd certainly not buy something as useless as cigarettes. But I'm afraid he hasn't had money for anything else either. How could I let him move out?

I don't dare to turn and look. I'd see the blotchy concrete wall and his frail figure, his pale thin face. Both the wall and him miserably colourless, and I remember he started to make me see the world as a painting.

"Let's try to get home," I say, closing my eyes and sitting as still and erect as possible.

"What makes you think I'll accept the charity now?" he asks.

"You'll believe that I... I need it. They caught him last night."

He wraps his arm firmly around my chest. "We'll talk about that at home, if you want to."

We help each other stand up. It's my turn to lift my hand and rub his freezing arm. And as I have to check I'm not touching a bruise, I catch a glimpse of his face as well. Above his fragile but reassuring smile this ominous sky turns into rubies like the frost on the window pane - the only treasure there was to present to him.

The End