watching death

The boy sat on the edge, watching - quite calmly in fact. The hundred foot drop did not seem to bother him, gazing between his swinging feet at the tiny rocks below. He was very observant, yet, despite his youth, he had the countenance of one several times his age. It was, perhaps, not in his look (although his innocently drawn face revealed much) but rather he exuded that certain feeling of hunched shoulders and withered soul. Still, he remained in his place, looking on silently. His face contorted itself, whenever it could, into a visage of arrogance; his eyebrows arched in sceptical disbelief and lips curled in cynical smile. He spoke not a word, but he communicated with ease. The violent wind tore past his body, the eyes glancing past the angry grey clouds ripping apart the sky in indifference - a tempest, like all the brews he had seen before. He would be battered and blotched, but it was no matter to him, and neither the fall. Eaten away; breath by breath, he was taken apart. He spoke no words as he watched the destruction. The boy knew.