I miss her, so friggin bad. A week without contact, and I feel like a rabbit that's dying from a lack of it's loved one. I know it's pathetic, but... eh, whatever.
My days now are a blur, reading good novels, enjoying beautiful comics, writing, running, starving and missing her. All these hurt, in one way or another, whether it be anxiety from studies, to a creative pain that emanates throughout the soul, to a burning sensation amongst the legs, to a hole in my belly, to a emptiness in my heart. Yet, it's a good pain, a good hurt. It helps me understand the wonder, the joy of good things happening in my life, allows me to appreciate the small, good things that is so easily taken for granted. Light conversations with friends. A tiny snack of dark chocolate, taken early in the morning. A simple conversation with the one you love.
It scares me sometimes that I write so much. No, this isn't a stupid way of trying to boast my ability to be a prolific writer, the opposite actually. I fear that I simply churn out trash, that I write without thinking, without crafting, that the product is simply beautiful for a moment in my eyes, before it turns to waste. I fear that my writing is masturbatory, for lack of a better term, that I write to appease the muse standing behind me with a hammer in her hands.
My work isn't good enough, I feel. I don't think it ever will be. Not as long as I write for myself, not as long as my art is selfish. I write simply because I am in love, with that indescribable sensation, that intense satisfaction that roars through the body when words fall perfectly in place, as if into slots where they had always meant to be. I write for that brief high, that period of time where the world fades away, and it's just me and my muse, whatever form she chooses to take, in that white room, which changes and warps in accordance to my imaginations, to my dreams. I write for that small voice in the back of my head, saying, "Even a ruin, a wreck is still something, is still existent. Even that is beautiful. Anything is better than nothing." Sure, I'd love for my work to be great for everybody, for it to awe, for it to have the same effect on others as their works have had on me. I would love for it to bring people to their emotional extremes as Pratchett has done, for my readers to laugh amidst tears. I would love for it bring the same sense of wonderment that Gaiman brings, the insatiable urge to consume the next page that GRR Martin brings, that lyrical intricacy that Le Guin brings. The sense of "I know what you mean, I feel you." that Craig Thompson brought to me that magical night in Botanic Gardens. Maybe. Maybe one day I will, one day my one wish that burns greater than any others in my chest will come true. Maybe one day I'll inspire others to write too, I'll leave trails across the hearts of even one person. Maybe I won't.
Maybe that will be alright.
A little piece written, in the darkness of a setting sun, aboard a bus headed home, across a plastic table amidst a crowd, under the harsh laboratory lights during biology class. In the middle of the night, where all sane men are asleep and the wonderments of the world come out to play:
I stand at the side as I watched the adults, black-booted and midnight-clad, jangling with insignia and well-oiled machinery, march into the dimly-lit doorway, trampling inwards from the cold, rain-slick streets. They were joking, smiling - at odds with their purpose - and I wait for the screams. They do not come, to my surprise. Their hazy silhouettes, outlined momentarily against the frost-covered windows, movement dispersing the gathering gloom of silence, sounds of crashes and careless men, of broken lives and broken china.
They trudge out, slow and reluctant, wretches with eyes wide as saucers, fear - primal and basic - etched across their loathsome features, mouths babbling in strange tongues, hands tied behind their winged backs, red skin burnt even redder by rough ropes. I, of course, felt no pity for these infernal scum, scuttling about like rats, not one shred of emotion was lost on these devilspawn. Not one bit.
Then things turned ugly, without warning - in the blink of an eye. Rifle-butt struck out against one of the elders, against his reddish flesh wrapped in wrinkles, his fail frame collapsing to the ground as he was struck across the face. A soft cry was clenched in behind jagged teeth. The devilkin knelt upon the cobblestones. Everything turned silent. The soldiers ceased their merriment. They had business to attend to. Time seemed to slow to a halt, second passing by as if hours. A gloved hand landed upon my shoulder, my brother's cold expression examining mine. I probably looked like a frightened deer. A comforting squeeze surprised me, as he lifting his other, and made a quick, cutting motion.
Cold iron barrel, attached to an instrument of death, was placed gently, almost soothingly against the back of the old devil's horned head, the executioner, the soldier, the angel caressing the trigger. His face was set, icy emotionless, his grip rock-firm, his movements absolutely stilled. His target was as if a statue, resigned to it's coming fate. Red lips moved, strange sounds spilling out, "Y'n vodran, 'ry ond yr raorar - "
I mouthed the translation, my lessons in the infernal script coming back to me. "Our Father, who art in heaven -"
The trigger was pulled. The singular gunshot rang out in the dark, forsaken street. Carmine red sprayed across grey cobblestones.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The still-warm body slumped to the ground in one fluid motion, hitting the blood-slick street with a sickening squelch of ruined bone and ruptured brain matter. The angel nudged the corpse with the still-smoking barrel, before, apparently satisfied, withdrawing into the ranks of soldiers standing by my side. A grim look was plastered across his divinelt handsome features, the acrid stench of death hung off him. He wore it like the Grim Reaper's cloak.
I've met him before, the Midnight Stroke. He wasn't pleasant.
A child begins to cry. Not short, quiet sobs, but a rising wail that bursts forth, increasing in volume and intensity, gathering strength as if attempting to push out the sorrow within. Wordlessly, my brother motions with his head, flowing golden locks swaying slightly. Two soldiers step out of the line, reaching into the huddled group to pull out the devilspawn. Gloved hands wrench the child free from it's mother's grasp. Her pleading cries mix with the siren wail of the struggling form held between the two angels. Maternal instinct gets the better of survival instincts, and she leaps forward, raining ineffectual blows onto my brother's medal-laden chest. A look of disdain flashes across his face, before he strikes her to the ground with the back of his hand, ornate rings of silver drawing a light arc of blood across the air. Some splatters across the white feathers of his wings, staining them a deep red. The mother ceases moving, sprawled across the ground.
The child is brought before me. With a jolt, I realize he is about my age. Green eyes stare back at me under auburn hair, wide with fear. His wiry frame wriggles beneath iron, vice-like grips, whimpers interspersed between tearful sobs. A couple of years ago, he might have been a playmate, running about open fields. We could have chased each other through winding streets, shouting, laughing, regardless of language. We could have explored vast caverns, made pretend as sky-pirates, been the greatest of friends.
My brother unholsters the matte-black pistol at his hip. His wide strides bring him before me. He places the instrument of death gently in mt hands, guiding my fingers close around the psitol grip. He looks down, the stern face in the sky matching my father's perfectly; lips pursed, a sombre expression etched across his angelic features. "Don't disappoint Father."
Time slows to a crawl, as if a man dragging himself forward on two broken legs. My heart crashes against its cage, threatening to leap out of my mouth. The barrel of the gun tilted upwards, raised and pointed itself straight at the struggling kid. Beads of sweat curl down my face, tracing the barrel, dripping onto grey cobblestones stained with blood. My hands shook, knuckles powder-white from the tightness of my grip.
Those three words. That face in the sky. Rage, fear, sadness, hatred poured unstoppered into my small heart, and it burst open like a ripe fruit. My finger tightened. I looked into those green eyes one more time.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I turned, barrel aimed at my brother's wide chest. My father's face stared at me, incredulous, confused. I pulled the trigger.
No comments:
Post a Comment