Discussion in 'SHOWCASING' started by Jorick, Sep 30, 2016.

Thread Status:
Not open for further replies.
  1. This thread exists to record and honor the winners of the Miscellaneous Iwaku Storytelling Contest. Manager's Pick winners were selected by the MISC contest managers; Community Pick winners were voted on by the members of Iwaku.

    MISC #1: A Brush With Death
    #1 Jorick, Sep 30, 2016
    Last edited: Sep 30, 2016
  2. MISC #1: A Brush With Death
    Announcement Thread
    Voting Thread

    Manager's Pick Winner: Copper Black by @HerziQuerzi
    Copper Black
    Copper Black

    She paced back and forth in the small circle of dirt allotted for her, guards stiffening every time she drew close. Six of them, forming a loose circle around her. Each well armoured, and hands holding tight to the hilts of their swords. Sheathed for the moment, but still a harsh reminder not to do anything stupid. At the edge of her vision, the light of the rising sun pricked at her, glanced off the copper discs hanging from her neck. Morning mist kept close to the ground, eddying around her scuffed boots.

    A short stone's throw away, a man leaned casually upon the hilt of his long steel, the accompanying short steel still sheathed at his waist. His eyes tracked her as she paced, an easy grin on his clean-shaven face, brown hair rolling down in carefully maintained waves to his shoulders. Unlike her, no circle of guards kept him under watch. A free, Cauldish man.

    Around them, people jostled each other upon the stands, eager for a better view. Nobles, dressed in vibrant colours off to one side, and commoners in drab greys and brown to the other. All kept at bay by a wooden fence, thirty paces across from one end to another. Inside, nothing but a circle of dirt, carefully flattened. Here and there, darker patches could be seen, a faint red tinge to them. Left over from yesterday's fights, fallen from broken noses and split lips during the Ladder of Swords. Soon, Sera knew, there would be fresh patches in the dirt.

    Far more, for while blunted blades had been used in yesterday's duels, the steel held now was keen and sharp. A proper fight, rather than a mere recreation.

    The crowds quieted and grew still as a figure stepped forward upon the raised dais in the heart of the noble's stands. A lavish gold and red cape draped the man's shoulders, and a diamond encrusted crown rested upon his head. King Visserine of Daeland, the famed mediator and proponent of peace. A wave spread around the circle, as those present knelt as well as they could, crowded together as they were. All except Sera and the Cauldish man opposite her.

    She, because defiance was all that was left to her.

    He, because Visserine was not his king.

    King Visserine looked out over the crowd, a look of mild distaste upon his soft face. As though the entire affair was an unfortunate annoyance he'd rather do without. "All may rise," he said, voice carefully neutral. He waited, as the crowds present rose with a loud rustling. "We are gathered here to bear witness to a trial by combat. Issued by Sera of Coppercove-" the guards around Sera stepped back, to better reveal her to the crowd, "-against Prince Beren of Caulder, represented by his champion Ser Lorel." The Cauldish man gave an extravagant bow to the crowd, to shouts of approval and scorn, depending on the individual's class and loyalties..

    Working his mouth sourly, the king moved as if to speak again before shaking his head and sinking back into his chair, an enameled and opulent affair. Beside Sera, one of the guards stepped forward and offered Sera her sword, belt strap wrapped around the sheath. Sera grabbed the hilt, felt the familiar grooves in the leather hilt, the hard core underneath. Calloused fingers tightened, flush as an old glove, and pulled the sword free, leaving the sheath in the guard's hand. She'd have no need of it here.

    Across the ring, Ser Lorel finished basking in the nobles’ praise and drew his own twin swords, their ornate blades making Sera's sword a cumbersome hunk of dull steel in comparison. With one final flourish, Lorel bowed to someone amongst the crowd. Following his gaze, Sera saw Prince Beren - the lecherous bastard, she thought bitterly - looking on with eager bloodlust, nose crooked and bruised where she had planted her boot last night.

    As one, the guards pulled away and left her alone in the ring with Ser Lorel, who was already walking towards her. Strolling even, his movements arrogant and languid. His blades hung loose in his hands, the tip of his long steel only barely kept above the dirt. Sera gritted her teeth, pride flaring at his carefree attitude. With a shout, she hefted her heavy sword and charged. When she was only a few strides away, she twisted, throwing her entire body behind the cleaving weight of her sword.

    But Lorel smoothly ducked underneath the blow, his short steel lashing out in reply. Sera shouldn't have been surprised to see a sword coming at her. She had seen plenty yesterday, during her success in the Ladder of Swords, and moreso had been anticipating this moment since she issued the challenge yesterday evening. Yet still, the glinting sharpness of the blade shook her, so clearly deadlier than the blunted blades she was familiar with. She lurched a pace back, and the steel flicked past her, skidding across the chain of copper discs around her neck.

    Behind it, Lorel's long steel came swinging around, Sera only just getting her own sword in the way in time. Before the shock of their blades meeting had even finished travelling up her arm, Lorel was spinning around, continuing the attack. Sera diverted one strike into the ground, the next into the air, and stabbed forward into the opening left in their midst. But the Cauldish champion danced past it, and nicked Sera in the leg with his long steel as he passed.

    Stumbling back, the roars of the crowed crashed over Sera, their excitement fueled by the sight of blood. Commoners, hoping to see her take the nobles down a notch. Cauldish dignitaries, eager to see her lowborn blood spilled. Hate, hope, support, scorn; all heaped upon her simply because of a brief brawl with the drunk prince of a foreign nation.

    As she struggled to ward off several more of Lorel's blows, Sera could already feel weariness beginning to set in. The bruises and batterings she had taken in yesterday's events piled on top of a night rendered sleepless by worry, and the heavy length of steel in her arm dragged her down, and down, and down. With each laboured breath, the weight of copper crushed her chest. Choked her.

    Once more the short steel lashed out, catching Sera's sword and dragging it to the side, the long steel swinging in through the gap. Sera closed her eyes against the blow, and felt it strike her in her left shoulder, set her spinning to the ground. She waited for the agony, gathered herself for it as she dragged herself onto her hands and knees. But when she opened her eyes, there was no blood. Lorel had struck her with the flat of his blade. Was making a game of it, of her. Even now, he strutted around the ring, shaking his steels at the crowd. Urging them to cheer harder, shout louder. He was making a fool of her. Nobody makes a fool of me.

    Anger boiled in her chest, pounded in her heart. Anger pushed her to her feet, brought strength back into her arms. Noticing her, Lorel smirked and faced her once more, turning his back on the surging crowd. Over his shoulder, Sera could see Prince Beren leering down at her, face mottled red and purple from passion and bruises.

    Refusing to let Lorel continue to dictate the pace of the fight, Sera leaped forward, blade swinging upwards to split the man from hip to shoulder. Yet once more, he casually shifted out of the way. The short steel retaliated once, twice, opening cuts on Sera's cheek and shoulder. Shouting, screaming, Sera let go of her sword with one hand and grabbed Lorel by the collar. Dragged him close and slammed her face into his.

    Once, twice.

    A sharp pain shot through Sera's side, and Lorel tore away, his short steel red with her blood. Gasping, Sera staggered back, clutching at the wound in her stomach. There was a glint of light, and Lorel's long steel caught Sera above the eye, continued past and removed the top of her ear. She managed to catch the next blow on her sword, only for his fist to crack her in the jaw, send her fumbling to one knee.

    Lorel was no longer smiling, as one eye swelled shut and blood dripped from his broken lips. His heavy boot caught Sera in the ribs, sent her sprawling on her back, sword falling from numb fingers. More kicks caught her in the shoulder, her stomach, her hand. Sera curled tight around the blows, face sticky with blood, limbs numbs, the wound in her side turning cold. Above her, she was dimly aware of Ser Lorel stomping around her. Shouting at her. Berating her, as her hand scrabbled for her dropped sword. Cursed her, as she rolling herself over and onto her knees. Goaded her, as the cold spread across her body. Challenged her, and upon receiving no response, raised his sword to deliver the finishing blow.

    But when he brought it down, it found Sera's sword held steady in it's way, a wailing shriek echoing out across the ring as the blades slid across each other. They stood there, frozen for a moment, both straining, muscles taut and pink-stained teeth bared, before Lorel found himself pushed back and away, stumbling. Then stumbling some more, as Sera’s heavy blade stabbed forward and left a shallow cut down the side of his chest.

    Before him, Sera rose to her feet, dangling like a loose marionette. Her head drooped forwards, tangled black hair hiding her dark face. Blood stained her tunic, soaked her hose, dripping from her chin. Her hands held her sword close, cradled it against her chest, one hand twisted and broken from Lorel's boot. And for a few moments, she stood there, silently swaying.

    Lorel began to raise his steels, and like that, the spell was broken. Sera's body grew rigid, and her head snapped up, teeth locked in a rictus of fury. Screaming, laughing, crying, her blade danced forward, it’s heavy weight forgotten in her rage. Screamed against Lorel's blades, tore through flesh and skin, left half a dozen cuts and then came back for more. The crowd had fallen dead silent, enraptured. Horrified.

    Inside, Sera's body was a battleground of it's own. Excruciating fire and numbing cold swirled and surged through her veins in turn, the world reduced to a blur of red and grey. An opportune strike from Lorel struck her in the shoulder, scraped against the bone, before she wrenched away, the pain quelled beneath her fury. Her need to unleash the fire within. To strike back after years of being spat on, overlooked, put aside, and left behind. Years that had left her stronger, harder, but brittle too. And now she had cracked, been shattered by the open wounds in her flesh, and the burning within surged out, scorching the world to ash. The morning light seared white-hot patterns through her eyes and branded her skull as the cold silhouette of Lorel danced and flickered, drew away.

    "Come on, you coward!" She screamed, her voice steel scraping against stone. Her spit flung like sparks from an anvil. "Finish what you started!" Her sword cleaved downwards at the grey shadow of Lorel, but it faded away and her steel shattered through the wooden fence, the sea of cowards behind it scrambling over themselves to get away. A line of fire flared up across the small of her back, and she whirled around, her steel returning the favour and catching Lorel in the shoulder, wind cleaving through fog. Triumphant, the blade lumbered back for more, impossibly hungry. Insatiable. The short steel came down to meet it, but too slow. Ever too slow. Sera's sword cut through Lorel's forearm with the sound of shattered bones and tortured metal.

    Confusion reached Lorel's face far before the pain, his gaze dull and jaw slack as he stared at his arm, at the thin cords of meat and gristle that left his hand uselessly dangling. Befuddled, frozen, he did not even react as Sera's blade curved back once more, and sheared off the top of his head at a sharp angle, one eye still staring downwards while the other soared into the sky, reproachful. Almost peacefully, it tumbled through the air and fell lost amidst the stands.

    Sera and Lorel collapsed as one, fell forward into each other’s arms, both their strings slit in a single practiced motion. The fire in her bones turned to ash, the ice in her veins to blood. Pain seeped back into Sera's consciousness, body too weak to scream, or even whimper. She simply lay there, gasping, as the searing light in her eyes faded away, and the grey shadows swelled to take their place.

    The last thing she heard, before she lost consciousness all together, was a single piercing scream from the crowd where Lorel’s lost head had sailed. The last thing she saw, a familiar worried face surrounded by a nimbus of blond hair leaning over her.

    Community Pick Winner #1 (Tied): I'm a Present! by @Nim
    I'm a Present!
    The sound of Heavy rain made its presence clear on top of the many umbrellas and people that stood nearby. The trees moved like crazy, as if they were drunk high school students in their prom with no super vision. But here, everyone stood still. Only one man spoke, and his voice reached to everyone.

    "May he always be remembered, and may he rest in peace."

    This caused several people in the group to start crying heavily while others shed tears or supported people. It was a hard time for all of them. But the tallest guy, and one of the three people who stood closest to the grave, simply stared. His entire body was soaking wet, but his pale blue eyes were dry. He had one hand on a woman's back, and another on a man's back, both of them crying hard.

    "Look at me Darren! Come on!"

    That same line kept crossing his mind. The sound of a young, eager and excited voice, constantly seeking the attention of his older brother. Darren kept looking at the grave as the people slowly begun paying their respects to the family and leaving, but he could not hear any of them. The voice of his younger brother haunted him. And he knew that it will be a voice that he is going to hear for the rest of his life.

    "Darren! Stop mowing the lawn and look at me already!"

    If he had only done so earlier, perhaps things would've turned out differently. There were plenty of factors that made this happen, his parents made that clear to him, but it was still hard for him.

    "Look at me, look at me, look at me!"

    Now his parents spoke to him, muttering words, but he barely understood what they told him. A couple of moments later, and he was alone besides the grave. Still staring at it, he dropped to his knees and hugged the gravestone. His eyes watered up quickly and he cried like he never cried before, choking up as he did.

    If he had only looked at his brother earlier, perhaps things could've ended up differently. He could've ran and push his brother from the path of the drunken driver's car.

    But all he did was watch his younger, eager, excited and barely 10 years old brother, in a cardboard box, get hit and sent flying away.

    "Finally Darren! Look!

    I'm a Present!"

    Community Pick Winner #2 (Tied): Human by @Verite


    A young, suicidal man muses on his beliefs and views, views that others might classify as delusions. After a failed suicide attempt, we read into his thoughts.

    - - -

    A myth I hear here and there about depression – a myth I'm sure made by people who don't have depression – is that being depressed basically means you're just sad all the time.

    But the reality isn't really like that at all.

    You don't feel sad. Generally, you just feel empty.

    It's the emptiness, the complete lack of feeling, that hurts more. The absence of feeling is what hurts more than any feeling. Being sad shows that you're alive. It shows that you're active enough to react to your situation. But being depressed... You can't even bother to react. You're just so defeated that you can't bring yourself to react to it anymore.

    Of course, this prompts someone to ask; what keeps you going then? Why haven't you gone ahead and tried to end it all already? Assuming that that someone isn't too afraid to ask, because I'm sure that some people avoid the topic because when it gets to that spot, they wouldn't want to ask that question, maybe because they don't want to accidentally give a person the incentive to just end it all right there like “Wow, you're right, good idea! I didn't think about that! I'll go end it all now!”

    It's a little annoying that people feel the need to walk on eggshells with that, because it feels like they see those kinds of people as dumb or not thinking things through.

    The only people that know about my death drive include this one guy I hang out with sometimes (just because no one else is willing to be in close proximity to me for a period of time) who likes to wear all black, has long bangs in his hair, bags under his eyes, and plays a disturbing amount of hunting games on his phone, and a “secret therapist,” who is really just this random girl from class who thinks she's a professional therapist and prides herself in her work because she aced AP Psychology back in High School.

    The former, I'm expecting to get a text from any day now that just ominously says “Don't come to class today,” and the latter, I'm expecting will drop out of college upon realizing that her intended psychology major is worthless and will just end up waiting tables the rest of her life.

    People always did say that I was overly pessimistic and generally negative, but that's just what I honestly felt. There is nothing positive to say about those people, and there is nothing positive to say about me.

    We are all disgusting inside.

    After I woke up from my failed suicide attempt, I realized it. It is human nature. To be disgusting. There is no flawless human being. No sinless human. Because that was it; to be a human was to be a sinner. Now, I'm not even any authority on religion, so I use the word “sin” a little loosely, but I think the point still stands. It's amazing what you can find out when you walk close enough to the abyss, and risk falling inside. For example, I used to wonder what made people so uncomfortable about talking about death, or my attitude toward it in general. And the thing is, in this youthful age in which most people have the rest of their lives ahead of them, they become uncomfortable when talking about death in general, or when they even notice my attitude towards it.

    I was never afraid of death, having always seen it as just a natural force. As natural and beautiful as air, gravity, light, darkness, and of course, life. I couldn't possibly find anything natural to be scary like that at all.

    Unless we're talking about bees, because I stay the hell away from those.

    The “secret therapist” once classified me as a low-functioning sociopath, I guess in contrast to a high-functioning one, though even then, I have to question the accuracy of that. Then again, I could never be bothered to look up what makes a person like that, so who knows? Though... I mean, I guess it's not completely out of the realm of possibility. I can easily say I just take what I want if I want it, but I mean, most of the things I want would be illegal to just take, like a video game or a ticket to a movie, and that'd be inconvenient for me.

    As in, I “lose.”

    In that regard, I think that's why I never did anything so crazy to make someone want to murder me. After all, as someone with a great death drive, wouldn't it have been best to just do something like that? Think about it. A lot of people plan their own suicides, but hardly their own murders. Unless you deliberately want it otherwise, the case is usually open and shut. You get murdered, your killer is convicted (or maybe not), and that's that. It was out of your control. Rather, it was in the control of someone else. Your life was in the hands of someone else, and they made a choice with your own life. I think, in that regard, because of that, I would hate to be murdered.

    Being murdered, again, would imply that I would “lose.” And call me a sore loser, but I would absolutely hate it if I were remembered as someone who died because I “lost” against someone in the struggle of life. It's different from dying in an accident, like a car accident or something else that also involves another person, because while it may not have been in your control, it wasn't in their deliberate control either. It was just a blunder that couldn't have been helped.

    That's why I think suicide is the most beautiful form of death.

    Even to the end, you remain responsible for your own fate. You are the one who stays in control to the very end.

    Well, that is, if you succeed.

    Because if you lose, then everything's different from there.

    And unfortunately, I lost.

    I attempted the end of my life on a day like any other, on a complete whim. I don't really know what the trigger is. I just woke up that day and thought to myself, “I should just kill myself.” Well, that's not necessarily true, actually. If it was, then I'd be going against my word and proving right those people who ask “Why don't you just do it already if you say you're suicidal?” I think it's that there wasn't any one definite trigger, it was a number of many factors that just gradually beat on me until I lost my willpower, such as the stress of student loans, older sister always asking for money, dad's still not around for anything, the girl I liked turned out to already have a boyfriend, and perhaps most tragically, this one video game I'd been waiting for like, ever, got delayed again. So with all that riding on me, I eventually just decided “You know, nothing good ever happens in life. Why should I have to keep going through this life full of pain with no payoff? I may as well just cut to the chase already.”

    And so, I did end my life that day. Or at least, I tried.

    The way I tried it, admittedly, was sort of flimsy to begin with, but not without its merit. See, I wanted to die quickly. I may have a death drive, but I'm not masochistic. I like death, not pain. Big difference, y'know?

    But at the same time, while wanting it quick, I also wanted it to be known that it was something that I did by my own choice. A snap decision that would instantly end it all. Not like overdosing on pills and sleeping on it, heart beating all night long, wondering if you made the right choice, or tying a nice little noose around your neck and feeling the tension build up, not just around your neck, but around your situation.

    So what method did I use? Why, the most elegant of them all.

    I jumped into traffic.

    Specifically, right in front of a speeding car. Even more specifically, one that I had hoped was going so fast on this road that he couldn't stop in time, but at the same time, one that I also was far away enough that people knew it was my choice.

    Looking back, I think that was an impossible feat.

    But I mean, it's too late to regret it now.

    I made the mistake of picking a driver who had quick reflexes, as he'd managed to barely stop in time. I mean, I still got hit pretty bad, enough to fracture a rib or two and knock me unconscious right then and there (or was it my head hitting the ground that knocked me out?). It hurt like holy hell, and I immediately regretted it. I distinctly remember the .07 seconds in which my mind had realized I screwed up. Of course, to clarify, I didn't regret choosing to attempt suicide. I just regretted not going about it the right way.

    Again, I don't like pain.

    Being knocked out was a strange sensation. I guess someone could say that calling it strange was just like calling “sleeping” strange, but sleeping was kinda weird too. Being asleep or otherwise unconscious is basically just being dead for a temporary amount of time.

    See, the thing about being unconscious is that you don't even really realize you're unconscious. In fact, you don't realize anything. Your mind is unable to comprehend even the simplest of thoughts, let alone its inactivity. Maybe every now and then you'll get a muddled feeling of consciousness that'd either be drowned out by your own unconsciousness or realized into full consciousness, waking you up before you knew it.

    But the thing is, I always saw death has just being asleep or unconscious, but of course, you don't wake up. I've heard many people also say stuff like that, but I think they only mean that in the superficial sense, like “Oh, everything's probably black forever.” That kind of depth-less thinking that never gets anyone anywhere. Not that I really consider myself a particularly deep thinker or anything, because that would just be pretentious, and I am the shining opposite of that, of course.

    To elaborate on what I was talking about earlier though, think about it. Try to imagine what it's like to be asleep. Try to replicate the complete black within your comprehension. No murky dreams or anything. Just the dark. But there's nothing to be afraid of in this dark. You aren't even conscious enough to be scared of anything, but even if you were, you could easily escape by willing yourself to wake up. But for death, it's different. There is no waking up from it. You're left to sleep forever, for as long as you want, and even longer than that. You're trapped inside your own mind, unable to break out and wake up, unable to even reach anywhere near the level of consciousness needed to wake up, unable to even be scared that you can no longer move, that you're forever bound inside the deepest trenches of your mind.

    After all, you're dead.

    That kind of description of death had always been what relaxed me the most about it. It's like sleeping, but nothing will ever bother you again. I couldn't possibly be scared of that. Not when I wouldn't realize that I'd be a bit lonely all by myself. Not when I wouldn't realize that it's all over.

    Of course, the tragedy was, I wasn't dead in reality. I was just unconscious. And needed to be hospitalized. I was unfortunately awakened and bothered by the affairs of the real world before me, with its dumb, real consequences and its stupid real pain.

    Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

    When I came to, I was in a hospital bed, wearing one of those embarrassingly revealing hospital gowns (though thankfully, I was obscured by a blanket above), attached to all sorts of weird, random machines, most notably the little do-hickey that measured my pulse. The constant beeping was an annoying, almost mocking reminder that I was unfortunately still alive.

    Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

    Oh, my god. Shut up. Stop it. Stop making fun of me. Cut that shit out. I get it. I get it already. I'm alive. Quit it.

    My thoughts angrily, frantically cycle through stuff like that as the heart monitor continues incessantly beeping, driving me into madness quickly. At this point, it was gonna try to make me kill myself again by hanging myself with the machine's goddamned cords or something. It's even more annoying to listen to than that one guy I knew back in high school whose voice sounded like Gilbert Gottfried, except not endearing and funny, so it was just annoying.

    Point being that in this inactive body in which I could barely move, probably doped up on a bunch of drugs and whatever so I didn't wake up screaming my head off, it felt like real hell.

    Living again made me want to die even more.

    That's another myth I've heard be thrown around. That people who fail trying to kill themselves end up waking up relieved that they're alive. But it wasn't until then and there, after just missing the cold brush of death, that I was even more depressed than before. And it wasn't even just because of the heart monitor's noise drumming in my head. I wasn't even sad because of some misplaced sense of shame that I had betrayed the trust of others or whatever. It was just that... I lost.

    I ended up failing at what I set out to do. There is nothing more humiliating than knowing that you tried something you so desperately wanted to succeed at, before realizing by the end that you had failed instead.

    Of course, like I said, I'm not really in a position to retry. So all I can do is just sit here in mental agony, writhing in my own pathetic pool of self-pity, until someone comes in and realizes that I'm awake. For the next several minutes, that's all I did. I sat in my bed, stared aimlessly at the ceiling, all the while trying to drown out the sound of the heart monitor.

    Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

    An hour passes. I get a little hungry. The nurse shows up. She's cute. She's happy to see that I'm finally awake. Probably because she gets paid more if I'm alive, I bet. She probably doesn't even really care about me in reality. Two can play at that game. I'm happy to see a cute face. Probably because it's the kind that I can think about later. I probably wouldn't actually like her if I got to know her. She tells me of my condition. Two broken ribs. Could have been way worse. I wish it were way worse. Not that I'm masochistic or anything. I swear. I quickly request some food. She fetches me soup. It feels strangely satisfying for her to feed me. Like she's my own personal maid. It tastes like shit. I eat it up anyway. Hunger is the best spice after all. Besides, I can't say no to a cute girl.

    Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

    Eventually, the drugs wear off and I can move well enough in no time. I decide to feed myself the soup to assert my independence. It's a little pathetic. I'm embarrassed of myself, but at least she doesn't know the intent behind my actions. She starts talking about me. I guess she thinks I'll feel inclined to pay her more if she's nice to me. It's not like she's a waitress or anything though, nor is she a working girl. I'll pay my bill, and then leave. I hope she doesn't expect a tip from me or anything. Even if I did want to, I'm too poor. I can barely afford student loans. I find a funny twist of irony in that statement and I start laughing aloud by accident. She laughs with me. God, she's so fake. She's not even laughing with me. She's probably laughing at me.

    Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

    I get a little pissed off. I can't even tell myself it's probably nothing. No one has ever been nice to me without a condition my entire life. The condition here, of course, is money. Nurses get paid handsomely after all. Not once does it occur to me that maybe I'm just going crazy. Or rather, I was always crazy. These drugs probably haven't really worn off, but instead made their way deeper into my system and giving me side effects. I hope one of them is death. Wouldn't that be a hell of a medicine? On one hand, you might die if you take this, but on the up side, your bad cough will stop.

    Jingle jingle. Jingle. Jingle jingle.

    My ringtone starts playing. Looks like they played my phone. The ringtone is “Stayin' Alive” by the Bee Gees. I can't even be embarrassed by it when the nurse giggles about it. She's so clearly faking being into this conversation. It's a bad joke. I can't even laugh at how bad it is. Shit. I just want to die. Let me end it all already. The nurse talks with the caller, my mother as I would eventually find out later, and she tells her that she'll be on her way to see me soon. She hangs up. She stays with me while we wait. I don't know what the hell she wants from me, but what I want from her is to leave me the hell alone.

    Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

    Please. Just leave me alone already. Stop trying to be my friend or whatever.


    She eventually leaves me the hell alone. I'm by myself again. I managed to shut out the noise of the heart monitor. My peaceful solitude is quickly interrupted when my mother walks in. She's concerned, but relieved that I'm alive. She doesn't seem aware. Looks like they all thought it was an accident. Guess that makes sense.

    She asks me standard questions. Predictable ones. Ones that are to be expected. How are you? What exactly happened? How did it happen? Will you be alright? Of course, I can't bring myself to really believe she cares. After all, it'd be better if I died, right? She's getting old. Soon, she'll be too old to work. The wrinkles on her face have been there for a while, but only now have I started to see her hair starting to gray. She may as well take this chance to collect life insurance from my corpse. That'd be the smart thing to do, right? The logical way to think. But I don't dwell on it. What she does won't be my concern when I'm dead. Nothing would be my concern.

    Oh, mother. Mom, mom, mom. What to say about you?

    There are two types of people who are raised Christian. Everyone goes to church, prays a lot, and hopes to be blessed with many fortunes in life, only to discover that the fortune in of itself was the gift of life. But what separates them is how they react to that kind of discovery. There are those who maintain their faith and accept that miracle in all of its glory, and there are those who are disappointed that there is no “real” fortune, and perhaps break away from the faith. I'm the latter, as you might have guessed from my beliefs, but my mother was always firmly the former.

    As such, her thoughts on death are a bit predictable. She knows that death is inevitable, and that it's the one thing people are equal in, though she wouldn't really say it like that. Still, it's ultimately simple. Be good, go to heaven. Be bad, go to hell. However, for all she says that death is unavoidable, that we shouldn't be scared of it, that our time will come when God says so, that it's simply the next stage of existence, I can easily peg her as the kind of person who will cling, tooth and nail, to life and a life or death situation, no matter how hopeless it might actually be for her.

    But I want her to think otherwise. I want her to know the truth.

    After all, that's human nature. We're not gods. We're monsters. We're savage creatures. We're beasts.

    I want to shatter that safe way of thinking. I have to. It's for her own good. I'm doing this out of the goodness of my own heart. I want to repay her for all that she's done for me while I was growing up by freeing her from this flawed, hypocritical way of thinking. That life was inherently the greatest thing ever, that it was inherently the gift given by God.

    It felt like something I absolutely had to do.

    We talk, but it's awkward. We haven't talked in a while. There isn't much to talk about. We never had that much in common. Our experiences, our mileage in life, were different and varied.

    So without any smooth transition to soften the blow or break the ice, I do it.

    I tell my mother the truth.

    In a horrible, monstrous, sickening, sociopathic, unredeemable, repulsive way, it feels good. It feels good to see her react. Me, her precious son whom she had brought into this world, wished for a way out. I tell her how long I've felt this, the truth behind the ordeal with the car, why I felt this (or rather, what I at least believed was why I felt this way), all of it.

    You see, mother, we are only human. And humans are fundamentally flawed creatures. We are arrogant beasts that think we can reach the sun, but really, we're only just beasts that learned to tell stories. But I'm done with stories. I want to close my book already.

    That's what I tell her.

    Initially, she's speechless. Shocked. All that jazz. I expected nothing less.

    But then. Something unprecedented for happens. She recovers. She starts talking. She refutes me. She goes against me.

    She tells me words that make me raise an eyebrow. Life was never inherently the gift, she tells me. It is not what you are given that matters, she says, but rather, what we do with them.

    Before she leaves, she apologizes to me. She's sorry that I had to feel this way. She feels sorry for me. She pities me. She looks down upon me. I want to clench my fist, but for some reason, I can't even get angry at her for pitying me. She finishes off by telling me that we don't live to vie for the sun. We live to vie to understand each other. But I could never understand anyone, much less myself.

    I don't know what to say. Now, I'm the speechless one. I'm too surprised to be embarrassed. But she has more resolve than me. Her perception of me has changed. Maybe her world has been shaken. But all she does is simply looks at me and leave me. She can't stand to be near me anymore.

    Now I really am alone. Loneliness had always been a bittersweet feeling to me, emphasis on the “sweet,” but now... the bitterness of it is emphasized. The piercing silence cuts into my ear like a wave, still deafening out the sound of the heart monitor. Life really is what you make of it, huh? Too bad I never did have a good poker face, or else I would have done something absolutely wild with the hand I was dealt.

    Now, I wonder if anything or anyone could ever help me.

    Especially since I can't do it myself.​
    #2 Jorick, Sep 30, 2016
    Last edited: Sep 30, 2016
    • Like Like x 4
Thread Status:
Not open for further replies.