The Passage of Repetition (479 hits)
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Submitted by <ThineJericho.at.gmail.com> (View user info) at 2005-05-03 00:47:24 EDT
Hiding the tears so close to falling, the child stands back up, a miniature giant in a world of unspoken disappointment and broken dreams, lessons he's learned - even at such a young age.
He looks around, for reassurance that no one was laughing and then, with slightly lessened confidence, picks the hockey stick back up and stands awaiting the puck on shaky roller-skates. The shouts of his fellow playmates fill the air, unheard as he focuses on gaining lost distance towards the opposing goal, desperately attempting to be noticed and gain redemption in the form of a mark on the scoreboard.
Finally, a teammate detects his frantic rush forward and passes the ball, rolling quickly on pavement, past the opposite team and then trapped by his stick, moving forward towards the rival goal. Inside his stomach clenches, this is the only chance he will receive; a juvenile fear of rejection makes itself known, but is pushed down by an effort of will.
The ball, as if driven by his unspoken thoughts, sails smoothly into the net, just another game of street hockey - played in an empty parking lot as a relief to countless parents finally able to relax and enjoy the summer day.
The child once again grasps acceptance as his friends gather in congratulations and celebration. He smiles modestly, as only now does his stomach relax, and accepts their praise.
*****
The streetlight glinted off the Maltese cross, four equal sides carved in the silver ring, a shine that soon vanished by the addition of dark blood - changing the sparkle to a dull, rust colored red.
Seconds later his friends pulled him off the damaged youth, bleeding and mercifully unconscious. Only then did reality beat its steady toll, as the questions rose to the surface and the heat of the moment dampened to merely a cold rage.
Those minutes were resurrected in nightmares for the rest of his life. The second it took for him to fall, bleeding to the ground. The vision of a broken body, and still continuing the angered assault, would haunt his memory for ages hence.
*****
An infatuation with self-destruction smolders along slowly with the cigarette leisurely burning in the snow.
Time moves rapidly now for the aging businessman. He muses thoughtfully that time is truly wasted on the youth he sees in the distance, skating and talking, ignoring their observer. One takes a fall from a particularly difficult trick, and brushes off his companion's jibes as well as the dirt and snow gained from his tumble. The old man smiles at the life and possibilities he glimpses in their careless antics.
The hazy afternoon is interrupted with a song, a melody that immediately brings the man's attention from a youthful past to the present. He answers the phone with a gruff voice, which softens as the conversation continues. His daughter's birthday, forgotten once again, but perhaps she understands. Perhaps not.
He softly permits a sigh to escape as their unexpectedly friendly banter ends, and says goodbye - for the last time.
On the other end of the phone, the teenaged girl is disappointed but not surprised that he had failed to remember her birthday again. He was a busy man, she told herself, as she quietly cried herself to a restless sleep, fourteen hours away from her father.
*****
Flippantly the girl stretches, swirling hair around her shoulders as if it were eddies in a stream. The light reflects a golden hue, creating value where sadness had been, mere moments before. She has finished crying, phone lying off the hook, as she said goodbye to a man she never really knew .. but always dreamed of meeting. It was her birthday, a day of joy and remembrance, but miles away from the only family she ever knew by name, the day was rather just another passing mark on a calendar.
She had not cried when he said he loved her, only grimaced in a bitter smile. It was the only time she had ever heard him whisper the words, the only moment she thought he might care. But yet, it seemed too final, too empty. And this was the last time she would hear his voice.
Years later she remembered that day .. and the tears that no longer fell. A forgotten figure, a father - lost.
*****
If this were a movie, the camera would pan out and around, in a panoramic view of life and all its traits. A yellow ribbon from childhood to represent what could have been. A family portrait, with broken glass holding the picture in place. Shards of memories shown in flashes upon the film, the skill of the cameraman only surpassed by the quality of the viewer.
Music would be playing in the background, something eloquent, with a violin or simple piano. A cello perhaps, long drawn notes as haunting as the wind on a dark night.
And then the camera would move past the pictures, past the memorabilia of a forgotten age, to show wet and dirty footsteps entering the room. As the view follows those steps, the music slowly fades from haunting and turns instead, chilling. And then .. the steps end with a pair of old tennis shoes.
The screen then comes forward, panning up towards a bed adorned with a pure-white comforter and sheets of satin. Lace hangs down from the posts, to create a beautiful perspective. And then abruptly, the camera falls, showing the pale leg of a girl, a woman, casually sprawled at a broken angle, clutching a small, white empty bottle in her hands.
She lies there, alone on a blanket of satin and silk, as if in a movie the moment would once again come that the girl laughs and smiles beside a more forgiving world.
But this isn't a movie. And her lips have forgotten how to lift in joy. For then, if this were a movie, the camera would pan down to a note attached to a flower, a yellow rose, and scrawled handwriting would explain the agony, the heartbreak, the tears, to the entranced audience.
But this isn't a movie. There is no note, no fancy script legible for a camera to see. No flower, no rose. Only a broken body erased of life. Movies forget the hurt they cause, life is forced to remember.
User Reviews
Submitted by d_prime (user info) at 2005-05-19 23:17:45 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I'm fine. I get a lot of attention elsewhere, and what really matters to me is that one person read it an appreciated it.
Submitted by shitfuck (user info) at 2005-05-03 01:11:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
FIND YOURSELF A CASE OF SHUT THE FUCK UP AND CHOKE ON IT.
Ummmmm. Right.