His whole countenance is black. The very air around him dark with foul humor.

I knew him when he was the golden boy. The sun rose and set on him, there was nothing he could do that dimmed his light. That was until her.

She blew into his life like an ill wind. Wrapping him in her black drama, leading him in a macabre dressage, making him perform a dance of her making.

It was easy to break his will, transforming him into a different creature, one who followed where the reins directed him. One who trembled under her guiding hand.

Gone were his blond tresses, contacts shaded his pale blue eyes. Black lined his eyes and painted his nails. His ensemble black from head to toe. If it weren’t for the change in his demeanor, he would have been a laughable, goth caricature.

As with many destructive storms, as quickly as she blew in, leaving a wide swath of loss and mayhem, she was gone. No clues to where she went or if she’d return.

He was left in her wake, drowning in his confusion and malaise, unable to grasp the hands reaching out to save him.

The black never faded, even as her presence did. The mantle of mourning fell about his shoulders, pulling him down into a depression as dark as his eyes. Gone was any light, any joy swept away as so much flotsam.

We wait and hope that one day a spark will flash behind those inconsolable eyes. That we will see the sun rise again for our golden boy.

Trifecta, a weekly one-word prompt, challenges writers to use that word in its third definition form, using no less than 33 words or no more than 333. The week’s prompt is: Black [adj. \ˈblak\] 3: dressed in black