He was dark for too long, absorbing everything around him. Too much, too often.
So he cruised down the boulevard, sailed through murky waters, inhaling everything putrid and awesome. It was who he was, who his mother could never be. He took in all that her sad eyes and dry mouth would never know. He expanded as the world around him recoiled.
“Freak,” she mumbled. “Turn to light.”
She was light for too long, deflecting and reflecting everything around her. Her stomach was bigger than her eyes. Always wanting, never seeing.
So she hid in broad daylight, white on white, ignoring everything delicious and disgusting. It was who she was, who her father never could be. She escaped all that his bloated fingers and insatiable ears had always known. She quailed as the world around her opened.
“Freak,” he mumbled. “Turn to dark.”
There was no collision, no grand gesture. It was the impact of two moving shoulders, a stumble on some banal sidewalk crack. They sauntered off, unaware of the casualties: kindness, the love that forms ex nihilo, life.