Not Existing

ahh yes, the man who wished to feel no pain. I seem to recall that it first started in his foot. He was bewildered and knew not what to do with himself. Chills of terror struck, but were soon overtaken by his acceptance of the situation; that is, when he realized that it posed no apparent threat to his life. It spread to his heart, and that’s when he knew there was no going back to the way things used to be. Ever so often, he thought he felt the prickle of needles in his chest, but no sooner had he realized this than they would abruptly cease and leave him wondering whether he was merely reliving a memory. And so his life would go on like this, steadily forgetting the reality which had come to appreciate so much. He hadn’t lost his mortality, merely his humanity. No rain ever fell like this: crimson. Not once had he felt like this: missing.

The man who felt no pain: Part 1

Its so close I can almost taste it. The smell of the salty ocean air. The blinding light reflecting from the ripples in the water. That clear sky as it transforms from a pleasant blue to a devilish orange-red. But just the other day I saw snowflakes. They melted as soon as I touched them. And now, I sit admiring that very impermanence.

There were three of them, and the night was a perfect one for such an event. A fog so heavy draped the streets that condensation was dripping from the trees like rain. The eerie glow of the moon light, rays scattered in the white vapour–this was a pacifying effect. And the more he let his mind wonder, the less he was prepared to face what was soon to follow. Three figures emerged, as if materializing from the fog itself. His heart seized with surprise, chest pulsating. They allowed him to pass, but before he could begin to relax he noticed something in the corner of his eye. He turned to look, but it had disappeared. He had disappeared…into the fog.

It would be his most intimate achievement. Something greater than he has ever given to anyone. To many, including her, it was at the very least meaningless; at most, a vile vendetta. The later was probably closer to the truth. Although he didn’t wish to hurt her, it was inevitable. Even the best of us find it difficult to maintain composure with blood and brain matter spraying across our face. He believed that this ultimate act of devotion would finally make her understand…it didn’t. But none of it mattered to him anymore. After all, he was dead. This insignificance was only rivaled by the effort put forth, by him, towards its execution. He would have to secure a firearm. This would be easy–he had no prior criminal record and resided in a red state. But no ordinary gun would do. No, for such a task it would need to be special. He had always wished to own and shoot a Luger Parabellum semi-automatic with an eight round magazine capacity. He would only need one round to finish the job. He waited for the gun to come in after placing an order. Fortunately, he was used to waiting…waiting for things that never came, but not this time. The package arrived and his local gun shop phoned to have him pick it up. What a beautiful piece, he thought. Almost a shame that it will probably never see the light of day again, locked away in an evidence locker. He rang her, she answered unenthusiastically, but politely “hi, how are you?” For the first time in a long while he said “I’m great.” He knew that she would never agree to meet if he used the old cliche of “we need to talk,” so instead, he told her he had found one of her diamond earrings. One of which he knew she had lost. When he finally saw her, his heart stopped.

not for sale

Something about a gallery of random images

What do you say to someone you haven’t seen in ten years? Thats how long it was. Neither then nor now was the right place, or the right time, but despite this they were finally going to see one another. She approached the bar counter, wondering whether she would even recognize him. He hadn’t yet arrived. A moment of doubt stuck her as she was waiting. The thought “should I even be here” was forming, but before it could materialize she was interrupted: “Hello.” “Hi, how are you?” she replied. “I’m still the same, just a little different.”

She ran her hand through his greasy, slick hair, pomaded back, straight from the 50s. “Motor oil,” was his answer to a question that she hadn’t asked. “Mineral spirits,” he said, while simultaneously handing her a container. The powerful aroma drifted as she opened the bottle, poured some on her hand, and scrubbed away. “You know that stuff causes cancer, don’t you?” a voice echoed. “So does living,” he said