I watched him as he watched out the window, the city lights emblazoning him, a movie still. He watched like a creator watches, a man with grand plans.
"What are you thinking?"
Sirens swelled as if to silence me. I wondered if he summoned them. I ask silly questions and I want immediate answers. One rarely happens and the other happens all too often. Red and blue flashed on the buildings below.
"I always thought I would be the villain," he said.
My heart started racing. My breath was short, I was lightheaded, I floated and spun. And all those lights faded like lens flares, bled together into beaded lines, necklaces my mother might wear. I wanted clarification, answers, I wanted my lights back.
"What?"
"I thought," he said, "it would be me."
He refused to play by my rules, he refused the game itself. And it came to me suddenly that it wasn't a game he was playing at all. A game implies chance, it implies opponents, and while I was certain there were those against him I was also certain that they had no weight. That he could not be stopped. And that whatever chance was present was only by his will.
The lights were bleeding out. The sirens, they returned. And right before I went to sleep I heard him hit the floor.
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