Tears

He tiptoed, not wanting to be caught, through the soundless aisle filled with the wooden epitaphs of great men and women. Sacred, final words which spoke of emotions and experiences he had never had lay all around him. The straight golden hay on his head was too long and was tossed back carelessly as he sought his treasure. His heart raced and his forehead perspired. He felt he had reached his destination and began to dig, his shaking body struggling with its load. Dust startled his eyes and he almost cried to cleanse himself, but knew the consequences and simply wiped his eyes off on his tattered sleeve. Finally, after half-an-hour, he heard the familiar thump for which he had waited. He gently pried open the cover and began to read.

A young lad, he was content with his situation. He was more experienced than most his age, but he never knew. He was weaker than most his age, but he never cared. He had been hurt just as much as anyone of any age, but he never cried. Crying always led to pain which he couldn't control. He had learned early on and had spent great labors to not cry, no matter how much it hurt. Unfortunately, any loss is a loss and what he lost took more than he had thought.

Every hello makes a goodbye more meaningful. Every failed chance for a kiss makes the real thing more magical. Every sunset makes the sunrise more monumental. The end requires the beginning and the beginning requires the end, otherwise we'd never notice. Sex occurs after birth and birth after sex. Each storm needs a sunbeam to cheer it up and each sunbeam needs a storm to cheer up. Love requires two people and two people require love.

The smudged symbols gently caressing the tome's skin with lips of pure intent gave him innocence. They were not an escape as they had been to his mother, but were instead a device to control himself by relinquishing his control. He was not guilty of his actions if he was not the cause of them. At least that is what he had told himself at the time. He would learn that inaction to prevent a known outcome was just was sinful as causing the action to occur yourself.

Tears, no matter the reason, made him want to punch something; it was not anger or frustration, but a pure desire to hit something. Fights rarely occurred, but injuries were common. A shun from a brother, a split knuckle, or scalding shower usually satisfied justice. He never knew why he cried, but he did learn of some stimuli that made him cry without fail. Well, they worked most of the time. He figured if he released his tears on purpose, he could control the outcome.

Necromancy raised by thorough study of the magical combinations of symbols invoked the resurrection of long dead emotions. By blaming their existence on a book, he managed to never let them leave his safety. They were reburied in the tomes each night as the light went out. He cried when he read of the fall of Cain, when Samwise became mayor, when Daisy held Benjamin in his last moments, and when Henri stabbed the heart of Villanelle, because he gave himself to the story. His empathy made the story real. He told himself he had control, because he gave control to the stories meaning. Even if it appeared he did not have control, he claimed to choose what controlled him.

He was not unhappy. He was never sad even when he cried. He never smiled; he was never happy. He relinquished control over himself in order to stand blameless. Unfortunately, the blame had always been his, because he chose to do nothing. He never helped himself. One night he accidentally slept with his book and was buried with it once the light came back.