Wrinkles of the past

Age was a dangerous thing

His face was accented with hints of rose and spattered with blemishes and a maze of wrinkles; hiding them became a habit. Each wrinkle displayed numerous paths: success, love, friendship and family among the many. Among the scratches was a road more walked, deeper than the ones around. An attribute that he used to give more value than any other.

Greed.

His hair was untamed, to say the least. Its bristles sharp and angular carved the oval shape of his jawline. Shades of smoke, thunder and a pearl river lied as if placed with the care of a sculptor's hand. It once resembled a lion; the warm ochre tone and soft velvet touch gave him immense joy. Now, there was nothing more of the echo of the past.

His eyes were the attribute that always drew attention. Dark as the night sky's cape glossed over with fragile glass. The light, however, didn't reach his eyes, frightened as a whimpering mouse; scared of the things he did and scared of the man he'd become. They say the eyes are the window to the soul and in his case, it was a veracious account.

Desperation makes you do terrible things and his story was one of the more unforgiving kind. Stealing apples became bags. Bags became wallets. Wallets became banks until half the city knew his name and held onto their feelings of despise and couldn't wait for his downfall. His addiction came at a cost but was his life's purpose. Each time, it filled him with an infectious tingling in his toes that spread to his face, much like the feeling of anxiety but instead of worrisome it's warm. It felt like a sultry summer day and an ocean wave, washing away the sadness to fill every crevice with a refreshing gentle touch. The feeling was like a blissful evocation of a time when things were not desperate. When the waves faded he savoured their warm feeling and got ready for the rush again, planning for his next thievery.

However, today his eyes did not tell that story. The sun was replaced with a lightless sky and the uplifting happiness was replaced with a melting pot of unpleasant feelings. Anger. Guilt. Sadness. Today, he would even miss his wrinkles, his rough grey hair and midnight eyes. Today, he was faced with the weight of 56 robberies. Legally that accounted for nothing other than a ....

"Death Sentence. Robert Henry Underwood, guilty of dishonestly appropriating property with the intention of misuse. 56 counts" the Judge declared.

Time began to slow and the sound of the gavel echoed and eddied in his head. He felt the harsh hands of sadness grip him by his hair. It was like a black hole, swallowing him up from the inside. It was an intense form of grief that he had never felt before. He was a man that had never once shed a tear but the 72 years of weight came crashing down on him. He cried and felt his whole body shaking to the rhythm of his weakening heart, his soul gasping inside of him, trying to throw out that black hole. He felt like a piece of glass shattering in slow motion; each shard representing a different piece of him. He watched the pieces disperse in the courtroom until there was nothing left to pull together.

Nevertheless, a corner of him rejoiced as there was nothing left to break. It was over. His face crumpled like cloth and he slumped onto the chair behind him.

Age was a dangerous thing.

Each year was a ticking time bomb for him and today was the day. The day his hair stayed like the rough gravel texture, unloved and abandoned. The day the wrinkles stopped growing like vines in a forest. The day where the light didn't have to be afraid to enter his eyes.

Today was finally the day his life ended.