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Unpresentative |
| Written by Evan Dover | |
| Thursday, 13 March 2008 | |
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Share it:       The sun slowly crept back into the horizon across the motionless sky. The clouds ignited with a furious red and orange inferno. Peter and Amber, who had lived in this beautiful cottage for two years now, lolled about the deck and enjoyed the wonderful explosion of the sky. They reclined in a fair bench made of oak, quite a lovely piece Amber had found at a flea market. Behind them, on the window sill, laid a small, black case. She leaned into him and whispered, “I love you.”
His very actions were contingent on her words. For he loved her much; or did he? He could say these words meaningfully. He could say what he thought to be true… What he wanted to be true. His love was something he had found, not learnt. His contorted view of love was based off of his father— who he had no trouble of painfully remembering from the scars on his legs and chest. In his father’s relentless, non-sporadic beatings, his father would tell him that he wouldn’t touch the arms, for he needed the arms to stay healthy to do the work that they were made for. Through his life, he came to a mental state in which was indescribable, even by himself. Between his father’s beatings early on, many things fell upon him. Still, early in his life, his father’s beatings went too far and Peter’s mother was killed. Before his father was apprehended, he killed himself. By this time, Peter was getting older and was determined to make progress in his life; even with his lack of education. This was perhaps the hardest time. He had no family for support, and now true friends that were ever there to help him. At this time, he knew nothing but fear, hate, and pain. Even his distorted opinion of love had abandoned him now. This was like a diamond dropped down a drain. For his mind was beautiful. The processes and cycles that his mind went through for every action, though, and even word that approached his tongue were incredibly sophisticated. His unapplied thoughts could have gotten him somewhere, but he was afraid. He was afraid to be brought thus far and then, yet again, being rejected. Furthermore, he couldn’t even trust himself. He thought about himself and his mindset numerous times. He felt special, like he was someone and he could use his mind to be something. But this is what he could not trust. He still had common sense, just as mot everyone, but his gifted intelligence had forsaken him. One thing he could always find to be true was his rhetoric and philosophical speech. His stroke of the tongue was astoundingly amazing. If he could not speak his own words with truth, then he would create phrases which stood with truth on their own. Now if Peter’s mind was a diamond down a drain, Amber was certainly a plumber. She intertwined herself in his advanced speech and meanings, and could comprehend things about him which others could not. For whom he was, she loved him. And when she saw the pain, she did not see who he was, but who he could be. She viewed him to be full of potential; something he had wholly forgotten. He could not help but love her too. For she was so caring and compassionate towards him, it seemed as a dream. He now became somewhat enlightened; his darkness was driven away by an influx of light, and a burden was taken off of his shoulders. Though she was his antidote, there was still a side-effect— his memories. He could escape those memories in her warmth, but he could never really escape the feelings. Now, those words cycled through his mind. This love that was always spoken was nonsense, he couldn’t understand it. He never wanted to find it; he wanted to learn it. His complex mind came through all the thoughts about love and how to theorize it, but he was still empty-handed. His mind went on an onslaught of equations to figure out the means of love— but there was nothing. His mind started a torment as he thought through those words. His eyes were now twitching in the now dark night, with Amber resting against him, gazing into the moon. A sweat now came down from his temple and ran across his heated face. Then, after a while of this, he calmly, he said to her, “I’ll be right back, I need to get something.” He walked across the wooden planks and stopped by the window. The small, black box on the sill was taunting him. He looked at it and a tear ran down his face. He ignored all his thoughts and wants, and for the answers— or maybe no— and tranquility, he walked past that black box. Several feet past on the porch, there laid an axe, shining in the moonlight. He came to the axe, and while more tears filled his face, he gently lifted it up by its hard, wooden shaft. With a few steps, he came to the bench, axe in hand. His mind thought it through quickly, and he tightened his grip on the axe. Amber turned around, and with a questioned look on her face, she slowly backed away, coming to the end of the bench. With tears dripping down from each eye, he came closer and, as she screamed, he thrust the axe into her chest. The blood came forth as the axe was now embedded in her body. Now, Peter bent down. On his knees, with his face in hands, he horribly wept and would never— could never— forget this night that his problems remained unsolved. Copyright 2008 Evan Dover |
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