He dared the sun to rise the next morning. Even the giant ball of flaming gas quailed under the fiery heat of his rage. It had barely begun to peek over the horizon before it promptly changed its mind and descended, plunging the village into an eerie twilight that was to last for 80 days.
The villagers pierced the darkness with candles, giving the once sunny town a crypt-like ambience. The odd futile attempt was made at the continuation of an everyday life. These were soon abandoned, until every last person was joined with him in mournful vigil. They sat in silence and darkness measuring the time through the howls of rage that thundered out as the clocks struck each hour.
In the gaps between, they could hear nothing but destruction. The rats and pigeons had fled and the trees were clutching tightly to their leaves, lest they should attract the red eyes of his wrath. He destroyed the crib, the marital bed, the picture frames. But he couldn’t stop. With his bare hands, he tore down the entire house.
When the powder of the last shattered brick dropped from his hand, he let out one final cry. It reverberated through the village, bouncing off the walls and eaves, slicing through the villagers and plunging them into a cold sweat. His voice broke, never to be used again. A single tear dropped from his eye, then another.
As the second tear graced the now barren ground, the sun peered tentatively above the horizon. It pulled itself up, slowly at first, but with growing confidence. The villagers stepped out, blinking, into the fresh hopeful light. As one, they turned their smarting eyes to the hill where the proud house had formerly stood.
He was there, sat still as stone, eyes closed, a small sorrowful smile upon his lips.
