He sits on the ledge and looks down at the streets below. He is tired. His arms lay limp beside his thighs but his hands grips the edge of the building.

He already lost one shoe to the street below as his feet lay limp at the end of tired legs, dangling off the edge. Just hanging there.

He looks up at the night sky and sighs. He leans back and lies down on the roof, legs from the knees down still dangling over the edge.

He stares at the sky and feels sad. He cannot see the stars anymore. He knows the stars are there. Deep inside he remembers how they look like. Brilliantly bright and distant. Always beautiful. Always out of reach.

He reaches a hand to the sky. Holds it there. Then slowly. Agonisingly. He drops it to his side and picks up the mask. He looks at it. The inside of the mask lined with spikes like the iron maiden. His other hand moves by instinct to his face and pauses there. Fingertips softly feels the scars where the spikes cut deepest.

He remembers each scar. Each rip. Each time.

He lays on the rooftop staring at the stars he cannot see.

He is still there when the orange fingers of dawn gently caresses the darkness and closes its fist around it.

As the last of the darkness is captured in the orange glow, a single tear drops from the corner of his eye, trickles down the side of his face and into his ear.

He stands up and slowly wears his mask. Grimaces as new cuts appears underneath the soft skin. It hurts. It stings. But it is his. He adjusts the mask till it feels just right.

He turns and looks at the sky and thinks maybe tonight he'll throw the mask off the rooftop. He sniggers at that thought. That's what he said yesterday. And the day before. And the day before.

With a last look around, he gathers his things, dust off the morning dew, and walks down the fire escape. He needs to pickup his shoe before someone takes it.

Its a new day.