Break of Day

1) Songs of the Dawn

There was something calming about the peaceful quiet before the sun greeted the world; when the cloak of night started to slip away, leaving the world bare. Hints of brightness peeked out of its earlier bed: a canopy of gentle, vibrant pinks, bright amid the rainbow of blues, relieving the stars of their nightly watch.

The only creatures awake at this hour were the animals, the procrastinators, the scholars, the insomniacs, and those trying to fake stability in their life. Only the birds dared raise their voices, the rest of us fearful we may awaken the chaos of the loud world too early.

Sonnets filled with words humans will never find an apt translation of drift through the air as steady ocean waves, their melodies dancing with one another. Its waves came as magical as any flute, as free and soulful as jazz, its tune flying sweet and high; the laughter of an invisible melody —rising, swooping, and resting just as birds do. Its notes never written, dancing on steps never taught. Each sound a bouquet of voices of songbirds meant for an opera house, warm hoots of souls born to an infinite horizon, and harsh caws holding words of a beast never tainted by the cruelty of a cage. Each note its own instrument in the symphony of a story my ears will never be graced with an understanding of. Every movement of their nature is reflected in their tune: the way they turn their head with gentle precision, hop upon branches and dive into the cool air —the original orchestra.

Their song was one of the best medicines for the nightmares— or whatever the hell the violent darkness chaining my soul with fear during the night and, when they spun back into the depths of my skull, left no memories behind would be called. Hell, I supposed. Not the fire and brimstone kind filled with the screams of tortured souls covered in welts and boils and melted skin that chose a path which seemed to stray ever so slightly from the strict confines of society as media depicted, but the kind which hides where it can never be reached. Where it can dig its roots in and never fear being torn out by wind; crippling the mind with the spread of its disease and draining the body's energy. The kind which plagues everyone at one point or another, some longer than others.

All equally horrific.

I have to remind myself of that when invisible claws of the past try to drag me away from the conscious world and back into a tornado of harsh thoughts wreaking havoc through my mind. 'Hell is hell. It doesn't matter if you've seen a glimpse of hell or all of it, it is still hell.' Or at least that is what Lexi keeps reminding me whenever I voice my belief that I am simply being dramatic or have not gone through enough to feel like this.

"Don't be ridiculous, Aaron," my mother's imperious cry cut through the peaceful moment, the melody turned into squawks of alarm and flaps of frightening wings. "The girls can't just up and run away to that stupid little town of yours because you have diluted yourself into the misconception that I still need to obey your every injunction!"

She must have been drinking again. With a sigh, I pried myself from the porch swing and went to calm my highly responsive mother before her mild agitation grew into an attempt to retest her already well-figured theory of who can come up with the best insults, her or whoever is in her vicinity. Given the fact my father was on the other end of the phone, she would win too quickly to console her inordinate feelings.

"These things take months to plan," she argued, one manicured hand clutching the telephone to her ear and the other holding a wine glass.

She said she'd stop drinking in the house. The painfully familiar feeling of stones settling in the pit of my stomach weighed my metaphorical heart—for if there was a sudden weight on my physical heart, it would likely require exigent medical attention— as I began a far too familiar routine. I was, however, in an odd sort of way, thankful her anger was directed towards my father. Whilst I may not enjoy her not-so-friendly banter with him, he was wise enough not to elicit such a reaction out of her resulting in my need to worry about having to set in action 'Maria is a little tired tonight'. Though Mare and Carlton were asleep, I would rather prefer not to find myself in the situation of either of them waking up sooner than anticipated.