Light and Dark - Part 1

'34 dead as tornado hits city'

The Overseer heaved a sigh and shut his eyes, as if the paper-thin eyelids could block out the tragedy. The block letters still danced in his inner vision, almost taunting him with their inescapability. The old man opened his eyes and sighed again. The headline lay on the breakfast table and he glanced at it with distaste, almost unwilling to touch it and confirm its reality. He had to though; his job demanded it. As he touched the paper a siren whirled by in the city below, a death knell which seemed eerily apt. With blue, unseeing eyes the Overseer automatically glanced towards the window at the sound, despite knowing already that from here, the 23rd floor of the Romanesco building, he couldn't see the road. Had he been properly looking, the Overseer would have only seen a dishwater-grey sky, a billboard advertising a soft drink and countless other tower blocks which limited his view to a matter of metres. No matter, all he was really seeing was that headline:

'34 dead as tornado hits city'.

Ignoring the age-old bile that rose in his throat, the old man carefully read to the end of the article. As he read, his wrinkled hand worked almost independently of the body to which it was attached, recording the particulars of the tragedy. That done, he could finally turn the page. Several more page turns finally revealed what he had been looking for. Another block letter headline, slightly smaller, nestled in the bottom corner of page 8:

'Local hero prevents ceiling collapse disaster'

At this, the Overseer once more sighed heavily. Letting go of the newspaper, which fluttered gracefully back onto the table with the second offending headline in full view, he pressed his fingertips to his temples. He rubbed vigorously, stretching and distorting the creases of his skin as if trying to scour the headlines from his mind. His burden weighed heavily on him these days and there was never an end in sight. Idly, he wondered if it were even possible that he, the Overseer, divinity's record-keeper and account-balancer, should feel disillusioned. His task just seemed increasingly... pointless.

Dispelling these musings with a single, definite shake of his silver head, the Overseer returned to business, cataloguing the details outlined in the celebratory article. 'David Hewitt, 43, taxi driver, cinema ceiling, saves 104, Tuesday 17th December 2009, 9:43pm, Tacoma, Washington.' Laying down his pen, the Overseer finished scanning the newspaper, finding no other relevant event today. He dropped the now-folded paper on top of a plate containing crumbs and a smear of butter and picked up his coffee. The rich, pungent steam filled his nostrils and calmed his tired mind. He closed his eyes gratefully and sat for a blissful, empty moment, cradling the white china mug and inhaling the soft fragrant cloud.