II

Dusk



The sun was retreating. A man could wait eternity for Nighttime to greet him, when the day had been a nightmare. An effect of a false prophet, the epitome of all lies, the sun was finally subsiding into slumber.

A man could wait an eternity for Nighttime to greet him. When he watched the sunset he could think about his sins, lack regret, and continue to live on, leaving them in the past.

A man could wait eternity for Nighttime. As he could wait seconds for life. Less than that second for death. A man could wait longer than his entire life for relief to come. The whole time he was living, he would be working for the relief. He figured the harder he worked now, the better the relief would feel.

It was not so. Regret is the inevitable. It is as unavoidable as death, and as wrathful as vengeance. Purgatory is not a necessary condition of penitence. Every person will feel remorse for their shameful deeds.


As he watched the sun crawl behind the ocean’s horizon, that song played in his head.

It began to snow. Nothing but a quiet whisper of a storm to come. The Tiny flakes fell gently, the air carefully caressed them as they laid them to the ground. The clouds that produced the snow were blocking direct view of the sun, but they swirled around its pink and orange. The sun was the epicenter of a whirlwind gate into the heavens.


The snow fell outside his bedroom window, and it was a beautiful sight. A magnificent storm to watch before his death. The ocean lay in the background, soaking the mural with beautiful blues and grays behind the sun, relaying its dying embers to the fortunate viewer.

His Daughter held his hand, and he was grateful of her for pushing back her tears. They hadn’t spoken in hours. They had just sat there, somber, looking out the window at the Atlantic coastline in Maine.

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

He used some of his rapidly depleting energy to curve his lips upward. She turned away, wiped her tears and did look back. The effort was not wasted nevertheless.

He knew last words were important. He wanted to make his worth it. He told her he loved her and she mirrored his sentiment. Then she told him to say hello to Mom when he made it to heaven.

He told her he would despite his lack of hope in an existence of Paradise.

The last thing he saw was a pleasant montage. It was like his entire life framed by the borders of the window and he saw all of his best memories in order. Then he saw his worst memories. They weren’t the ones of him being hurt, but those of him hurting others. The climax of his final subliminal memoir was of repentance. It was not for a god he didn’t believe in, it was for himself. He was able to die at peace for his wrongdoings. He spent one more moment reflecting this ideal, then- just as the sun finished its bows and exited the stage- he closed his eyes.

Forty-eight seconds later his heart stopped.

He never said hello to his wife in heaven.

He accepted sleep with open arms and then became a snowflake.