Man in the window.

The weather seemed to reflect his mood this night. 

The wind outside howled, and tore apart tender things. It swept through the gardens, mercilessly crushing fresh blossoms as they slept the night. Murdering them in their beds. 

He envied the wind, on this dark night. He could not howl and rip through with no thought on consequence. 

However much he wished to. 

He stood at the window, pale slivers of his face reflected in the glass like waning moons. Moons that were trembling at the power of the wind. The panes rattled and the frames threatened to fly loose of the hinges. 

He didn't pay heed. They held. 

He caught his reflection and started. The face staring back was not his. It was that of a corpse.

Lifeless, hollow, frozen in stone. 

The fire in the hearth had died, he did not know when. All that was left were dying embers. An occasional crackle, as if the fire was holding on to the last strings of life, knowing it would not last. 

Just like he was. 

He walked around the darkened room, lit only by the eerie moonlight, reflecting off the silver in his hair, and the polished surfaces. 

This night, it was suitable. This night he needed the darkness. 

Caressing the gold engravings on the rich leather spines, he spoke to the books. They were his only friends. The gave all and asked very little. 

They did not judge. 

They could not judge. 

For a moment, he thought of how it would be to be one himself. A book of good value, in good hands. Tender touches, reverent readers, a place among peers. 

To be oblivious to human apathy. 

To never be aware of the world outside. An eternity in rest. 

Lifeless but contain life for those who learned to look. For those who earned to look. 

Oh, to be bound in the finest leather, carved upon with the purest gold. Passed on as heirlooms. 

To last as long as time itself, till day and hour forgotten, and fade away. 

To be oblivious. Ignorant and truly blissful. 

He flicks off some dust on the sleeve of his jacket and turns back to the room. 

It is still dark everywhere. The moon seems to be waning. 

How long has he been here?

It doesn't matter. Nothing matters in the darkness. 

He picks up the half full glass of wine, black in the night, watching the man in the window do the same. 

The glass hovers a hair's breadth from his lips. Watching himself is strangely hypnotic. 

His breath fogs the glass dangling from his fingers. Elegantly careless. 

The image disappears for a moment. The moon hides from him. Quickly, he sips the bitter burning liquid, and revels in a private moment of exploration as his senses respond to the heat. 

He shivers. His image does not watch him. The broken image of an animated corpse. 

Eyes closed, he feels the burn settle in his core, warming him. It is pleasure he can enjoy alone. 

Pleasure. Alone. 

The inferius is back. It grins at him from the window. 

He hates it. Leave me alone! His cries are lost to the howls of the wind outside. 

He cannot even know if he spoke aloud, he does not care. 

The inferius smiles at him, and it is not pretty. It is nowhere near pleasant. 

It is scary. 

He cannot take this anymore. The image still smiles, like a predator, and raises it's hand. 

He knows what will happen. He must not let it happen. 

The glass spills the liquid as it flies across the room. It is almost as if time has stretched to let him watch this. An arm comes up to cover his face as glass shatters and little pieces skitter to a halt. 

He has won. The inferius has missed. 

The red-black liquid has splashed on the walls, leaving trails towards the floor. The carpet has a stain spreading through it. 

Glass crunches underfoot as he makes his way back to the window. 

The inferius is laughing. He hates the damn man in the window. 

Cracked face like cut up pie, and yet the bastard laughs. 

This must stop. 

It's extremely satisfying to see the face crumple in pain moments before the window shatters under his fist. 

The window has broken. The inferius is gone. 

He knows the laughter is now from within him. He had won. 

There is something warm dripping from his hand, and he takes a moment to realise that the pain is also from there. 

It is alright. Blood is life, and pain means being alive. 

He is alive, with pain and blood. 

He is alive as he feels the skin tear, when he carelessly pulls out the tiny pieces embedded in his flesh. 

He feels the warmth of the blood flowing down his arm as he examines his sliced skin. 

He has never felt this alive in days. 

His lips curl into a feral grin, as he raises his bloodied and battered fist to the new man in the window. 

His laughter is lost in the howling of the wind.