A portrait of current colors 1/2

In the vacant ballroom there sat a man, idly and lonely on an old chair that smelled like the dark pine forest which spun around the city like fence. He sat there and drank from his glass, patiently waiting for the rush that every bittersweet drop of alcohol gave him. The taste of whiskey that pleasantly burned his lips while his shaky fingers lifted a cigarette to his mouth. He kissed it, smoke rose into the empty vastness that surrounded him and time seemed to pass just a bit slower. The pain in his throat grew, and so his painfully short feeling of ease. This feeling then disappeared again, leaving him alone in that ballroom.

The feast had been over for long now, and he still sat there. Unable to leave. In his face there was a certain youthfulness that grew paler with every sip he took; with every inhale his lungs had to bear. But it was yet hidden under a white, flawless face with deep blue eyes and thick black hair. The smell of pines under which he had wandered so often in his younger years had now fully succumbed to the comfortable smell of common sins. He took another sip and watched the smoke escape towards the ceiling of the old building. It was the Moscqua-Palais. A marvelous villa that had more stories to tell than the oldest prisoner of the city. This city that lay proudly between the pines like a castle on a hill. An unconquered bastion inhabited by newly made conquerors. A title earned in the bloody chaos that was the symphony of artillery. But this was far away now, the young man thought. At least another couple minutes. Maybe a few fragile moments.

He took another sip and rush ed through his hair. Feeling the sensation of every hair touching his skin slowly melt away; numbed by the rush that he was running after. Too often lately. But today was an exception. It was special. A dull noise penetrated the ancient silence within the palais. The young man heard it knocking on his consciousness but did not move. He did not want to get up from this chair. To many consequences awaited him would he answer this call. So, he just sat there, still in his black suit with a high white collar as the smoke of his tobacco filled the air. It escaped his lungs only after a moment in which he tried to hold it hostage within him. Begging it no to leave him again. Suddenly, he became aware of something else. Another sound, another question left unanswered. This time it was louder, closer. Approaching him.