Contemplicity.com

Having blown through the local mall, I was still hungry for a little more in store perusing. In the spirit of any pop-culture choked teen I headed to another store, and while browsing through the shelves of DVDs I spotted a young woman. Her grown out blue turning brown hair resting just above her shoulders was cut to reveal the freckles bleeding down her neck. Her body wasn’t thick or petite by definition, but reminiscent of ‘The Gilmore Girls’, and her face reminded me of every cute girl I had met in my dreams. I looked at her, probably a little longer than I should, memorizing every detail that I could fit into my head. She glided as she walked, talking with another young girl, probably some comment on the noise blaring from the overhead speakers. Yet with all that I had seen, it seemed to me that she hadn’t noticed me at all.

‘No loss.’ I thought, ‘It’s not like I can do anything as it is.’

So I continued on, moving into a field of CDs, but when I looked up from Seether’s debut album, I spotted the pair again. This time we made eye contact, the blue hair girl and I. She smiled at me, and I answered back with what I think was the dumbest of all possible expressions on my face. I timidly looked away, for a moment, shyly trying to break our link, but when I lifted my head it seemed she was still fixated on me. Her companion, still oblivious, was talking on about something, but honestly I don’t think either of us was listening. This time she looked away, quickly glancing down, then to her right, before coming back to our shared stare. In that moment, I had managed to regain my composure enough to break a small smile in her direction. She blushed, looked down again, and waved her left hand. A hand which had a series of small symbols painted on with a pen, surrounding a larger dancing girl, that seemed to sway as she waved. Her friend had finally noticed the attention she was missing, and grabbed my young artist’s arm forcing her away. As her friend pulled her off, she turned around motioning something to me, so I followed them while maintaining my distance. As I faked interest in the present CDs, she turned around a second time to give me a coy look with pleading eyes. As they continued to walk farther away, I could not break my gaze at the amazing woman, who in her third attempt to turn around caught her colleague’s attention. Now with this dangerous duo starring straight at me, I ducked behind a shelf filled with discount items. From behind my refuge I could hear a small giggle which slowly slipped into laughter. We continued our dance around the store, all the while holding conversations in our eyes. My mind was bouncing ideas and possibilities against a giant wall of guilt which eventually forced me to leave the establishment.

I finished my day by brooding over a meal, and returning home to relax. After the ritualistic cleaning out my e-mail’s inbox from its stacks of junk mail, I turned on the television so that I could be present when SNL started. Having tuned in much too early, I still had the last of ‘Pretender’ and a thirty minute news cast to sit through. While ‘Pretender’ was showing it’s closing credits the news had a thirty second blurb for its upcoming episode. I wasn’t really paying attention, but my ears perked up when mention of something at the mall I had been at only an hour before. I waited for the news to start, hopping for clarification of this curious coincidence.

“…for another senate debate.” The anchor woman said, “Yet on a tragic note, our leading story involves a double homicide just outside the Tucson Mall.”

As the story progressed, we learn of a drunken college student racing to a holiday weekend party. Once the anchors had built up the villain of their story, they turned the focus onto the drunk’s passenger and the driver of the receiving vehicle; local college student, 19 year old Samantha Cartwright. As we learned about the two victims, we get to see pictures of them, to help us build the necessary emotional bonds. They begin mostly showing picture of the female victim, and we get to watch this young girl as she grows up. Finally they show a picture taken only a week ago at a party celebrating her first year of college. Suddenly I felt my breathing stop, and my heart beat get even harder. It was her, my afternoon mistress, the girl I couldn’t rid from my mind.

“She’s dead.” I whispered, breathing again to replenish the oxygen talking had dispelled. I sat there for a moment, lost in the thoughts of possibilities, no longer listening to the broadcast or the noise coming from outside my apartment door. I starred blankly, not really seeing, or understanding what I had just heard. By the time the melee of thoughts had run their course, and I was able to understand my native tongue again, the television demigods had moved onto an upcoming festival. Now I am left alone with these thoughts and flashes of sadistic memories, thinking of all the things I could have done, and just how often we get once in a lifetime chances…

“I should have done things differently… I am sorry Samantha.”

Trying to lose myself in the life of the city, I always seem to end up at the harbour. I’m not sure if it’s the water, the lights, the view, but I can’t seem to stay away. Weather I want to clear my head, or just lose the problems of the world, anything seems possible when I am starring into that void. But to be ripped into consciousness by a terrified scream, is just as cruel to those not in pain.

It was a little past eight thirty in the evening, if memory serves correct, and I was a bit wound up from my former company and the movie we just saw. Knowing how well walking always soothes me, I figured a night time trip to the harbour would be well rewarded; walking, watching, listening to the street performers, and trying to make a symphony from the various melodies, I caught something swift from the corner of my eye. Jerking about to see what it was, I saw a woman wearing pink screaming and a man getting off a bench. I couldn’t tell if he had hit her, or just knocked a drink from her hand, but she was walking away and the man made no attempt to follow. ‘Two people fighting, it is bound to happen.’ I thought, ‘No one is hurt, so what should I care?’

I continued walking, moving through the crowds, who were gathering around the closing shops, trying to steal away the minutes before the district shut down. Ease dropping, as I often do, on the various languages being spoken, trying to pick out the words I know from each. I sort of clenched my eyes, laughing under my breathe at something I think was just said, when I felt a jolt. Jarring awake, I realized that I had just collided with a young woman. Early twenties, dirty blonde hair a mess, she was shaking, and seemed to be in a hurry. She apologized, too many times, and ran off into the dark; still in shock I wasn’t even able to mutter a word. I shook it off, and continued along my path, when I saw the woman in pink sitting alone crying. I wasn’t about to approach her, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to procrastinate in the area a while. Trying not to be too obvious I pretended to watch some underage students dancing, while peaking at her in the corner of my eyes. I was too busy keeping up with her, that I completely missed the earlier brute’s arrival until he was right next to her.

They started yelling almost instantly, and no one seemed to be paying them any attention. The man kept making references to her bag, and after numerous refusals, he lunged for the object. She put up little resistance, until he had it in his hands. Before he could open it, she was on his back, digging her nails into his neck, but then the bastard grabbed her head and slammed it into the bench she had been sitting on earlier. That was enough for me, and I started running towards them, yet strangely the act of me running got more attention than the fighting a short distance away. The woman got up as he was opening her bag, and when she tried to reclaim it, the monster hit her across the chest with his elbow. I managed to grab his arm before the lady hit the ground, and he reacted with little thought by pushing me away.

I shifted my weight, landing hard on my right heel, trying a bit much to make it where I didn’t budge from his assault. “You don’t want to do this.” I muttered, to which he laughed, and asked me to speak up. “I don’t want to hurt you.” I said, more forceful than before, but still not sure enough of myself.

He swung at me, missing me as I shifted back on my heal which shot pain up my leg from how I had tried to stop myself a moment ago. I stepped back, ducking slightly trying not to show that my foot was in pain. At the same moment he came back with his other fist, which I had luckily moved out of range of when I had repositioned my feet. Seemingly perplexed by my pre-cognitive move, he stopped for a second, and I stood fully upright, pressing out my chest and shoulders. He looked at me, my scrawny arms and sturdy legs, knowing I had the obvious height advantage, I think he was judging a fight between us. Before either of us significantly moved again, I heard women’s voices imploring their male counterparts to come to the crying woman’s aid. Before he was able to finish his battle scenario, I had four males of varying size to support my cause. The man turned to walk away, and one of the men commanded him to return the young lady’s purse. He reluctantly agreed, and the expression he used in the return of the purse is how I imagine most people would look watching their house burn down. The fearsome five disbanded, and the woman in pink retreated to a bathroom, I suppose to better appraise her current condition. I was shaking a bit, from the recently averted scuffle, and decided it best to return home.

Apparently the ruckus had finally captured the attention of everyone nearby, including the distracted young woman from earlier. As I walked, she approached me and whispered that it was a good thing I had done. I stopped, which seemed to scare her, but before she could hurry off I thanked her and apologized for running her down earlier. She apologized even more for having been so careless, and offered to buy me a drink sometime. She turned off, quickly trying to make her escape, and I insisted that sometime be now. She stopped, looking back with a curious look on her face. ”It is just an expression…” she said, looking directly at the sidewalk. I waved my hand between her and the ground, lifting it up to my face. When our eyes meet I said, “Yeah, but I’m really thirsty.”

She giggled, trying hard not to laugh, and I just hoped that no one else thought that sounded as horrible as it did to me. We crossed the street, to a well placed McDonalds, to stand in a slowly moving line. She didn’t say a word, instead just prodding through her purse to give me the money for the drink. After handing me the change, I placed my order at the counter; however when I turned around the young woman was gone and the impatient people were imploring me to take my purchase. I took my drink and went outside, and as I thought, there were no clues as to where she vanished off to. Taking my reward for a job well done, I returned home, even more wound up than before I was when I had started this walk.

(based on an idea by Prototype Chan)

He forgets the name of it, but simply that it exists in amongst all the foul language and distain. He forgets the feel of it, soft, and liquid against his skin, warming his senses. And the form of it sits just beyond his grasp, mocking him from the shadows. The taste of it, the taste of it he puts aside and drowns out with all the things that will fit in his mouth. No, he has forgotten all of it, and only the possibility remains. He woke up; this is what he did everyday, forever.

He woke up and noticed, that the ceiling was especially cream, as far as ceilings were concerned. He went back to sleep, and dreamt of, nothing really; which gave him a headache afterward. He woke up, and this was no different from the day before, except the day before he had killed himself. But even in this, things were still very much the same. The day before, he had also woken up, remembering nothing. This is what happens everyday, forever. It’s just something he does, for good reason I’m sure.

She came to his door, and brought him a loaf of raisin toast and a flask of warm coffee. He ate gratefully, looking up at her with curious eyes.
“I suppose I know you?” He said disinterestedly, swallowing a large chunk of bread.
“Yes.” She replied. After some other pleasantries were exchanged, she pleaded, “Please stop this!”
He looked up at her, expressionlessly, “Why?”
“Because, you can’t live like this.”

He thought about this for sometime, he couldn’t remember if he had thought about this the day before; only, it was evident that he had come to the same conclusion. And so he said, “But I have always lived like this.”

He returned to his meal, finishing off the last of it, and thanked the intruder for her offering. Standing now, or trying, he became to dizzy and fell from his half way stance. Looking down at his arms, he saw gashes, artificial orifices to let flow the mortal coil. Then he realized his arms were wet; sticky with the same substance that covered most of his body. He tried to clean himself, wiping his blood onto the velvet sheets he had emerged from.

“There were white once.” The girl said, with a tear catching just inside the corner of her mouth. “I tried cleaning them, but it never does any good. So now I just leave them for you.” She trailed off, wanting to say more; to exclaim to him that these were his favourite sheets, and that his meal was a recipe he had taught her. But she knew that trying to invoke his memories was a waste, for she had tried countless times before.

He had gotten dressed, in the time the girl had spent pitying herself. He almost seemed like he wanted to start this day. He noticed a mirror, the same mirror that he noticed every morning, and studied his face in it. Beneath the mirror, atop a dresser, there were photographs, and a box filled with small trinkets. Peeking through the pictures, he noticed a familiarity; then looking back to compare the girl, he now knew these pictures were of the two of them. They looked as if they had been happy at one time, but on closer inspection she looked much more depressed now, and this depression had given her an unfair amount of aging. The box was a wooden one, with one of it’s hinges coming off from far too much use. He thought she must have tried to show him this before; theater tickets, love notes, some letters, a key chain, more photographs, and a ring. He paused, taking hold of the ring, and then looking through the pictures accompanying it. It appeared as if she had been wearing it when these were taken. Then thinking to look at his own hands, he noticed a larger golden band around his finger. One he was still wearing. Turning around, he could see that the woman was crying now, no longer trying to hide it.

“You took it off?” He asked, his voice going shrill before the sentence was over.
“What would you have me do?” She replied, between tears. “You killed yourself.”

He placed the ring back in it’s box, and made his way out the door. The world outside that room a mystery to him, and still the idea that this was his home seemed to push him forward. He reached the kitchen, dirty, obviously from a lack of use. Standing there he wondered if he knew how to cook; eventually giving into the conclusion that he couldn’t, thinking that someone couldn’t forget a thing like that. On the counter he saw a half finished cigarette. Seeing that it wasn’t finished, he assumed it was his and lit it on the gas stove.

“You don’t smoke.” The woman’s voice said, “You came across some of mine one day, and have been puffing on that one for weeks.”
“Well, I think I will finish it today.” He mumbled, snapping the switch to the stove back to it’s original position. “But thanks anyway.”

Moving into the dinning room, wisp of white smoke began to move in the air around him. He paused, taking a single long nicotine drag, sucking all that drug deep into the recesses of his lungs. The woman stood close behind him, closing her eyes a bit to take in some of that second hand high.

As if interrupting the silence that had become so comfortable he said, “You don’t deserve this.” Pausing for a moment, and then drudging up the courage to complete his incorrect statement. “At least, I’m sure you don’t deserve this.”
Quickly and sharply the woman shot back her reply. “You don’t know what I deserve. You don’t know anything.”

He looked at her, with the oddest expression of surprise, then looking down at the floor, he become aware of tiny little spots on his brown leather shoes. Leaving the kind stranger to her mixed feelings of hatred and love, he walked through the house, and out the front door.

He arrived outside, as he thought that he might, stopping to look around and take in this alien environment. Behind him, the woman still irritated with his comment said, “You’ll come back, you always come back.”
“Why do you think I will come back this time?” He asked.
“Because you are in love with me, as I am with you.”

He walked, not really knowing where to go, or caring where he was going, for he was lost in thought. Lost, thinking about what his companion had just said. How could he be in love with her, he didn’t even know her. He tried to push it into the back of his mind, moving past it, moving onto to this day and what he could make of it. Moving through crowded sidewalks and busy streets, moving to a location, a place undisclosed even to him; yet he thought if he could just get there, that some of this might make sense. He spent hours walking, down streets, through alleys, not knowing what he was looking for; and that’s when it arrived.

He found himself in a park, not alone, but completely surrounded by strangers. He wondered, if he knew any of them, or if they knew him. Wondered if they remembered him, or the idea of him, this man who remembered nothing. He saw children playing on swings, and wondered if he had children, or if he and that woman had tried having them. He wondered about his childhood, his parents, friends that he may have had. He wondered if he really existed at all. He returned to staring at the spots on his leather shoes, trying to quiet the noises inside of his head. Trying so hard in fact, he almost missed a new voice, calling out to him.

“Excuse me?” A pause, finally met by the word, “Hello?” The man turned around, to see a lovely young girl standing close to him.
“Do I know you?” He asked.
To which she replied, “No, but I have seen you in this park everyday for so long, and I wanted to know…” Stopping she realised just how awkward she must sound.
“Yes?” He begged, “Please, continue.”
“Well, it’s just that I wanted to know why you come to this park everyday.”
He looked in her eyes, seeing them sparkle as she waited for his answer. And finally, after countless seconds of silence he answered, “I do not know.”
She looked puzzled and asked, “What do you mean?”
Not really feeling up to explaining how he had come here, he simply said, “I guess I am just looking for pieces of myself, that I might have left along the way.”

Nodding her head, the young girl pretended to understand what he meant, but was in truth more confused now than before she had asked. Not wanting to lose his new found attention, he asked his would be inquisitor if she would like to continue talking. She agreed, and the two of them moved off to a bench beneath an old, misshapen tree. The conversations were peculiar and jagged, for either of them were slightly more than nervous, being met with the idea of a new friend. Finally a silence grew between them, one neither seemed to mind. They sat, listening to the sounds of the park, not needing to speak to talk to each other, but just to listen to hear what the other was feeling.

“You don’t belong here, do you?” She asked, not really wanting to know the answer.
“No, but when will this emptiness end?” He asked.
He looked at her, as she sat staring off just to the left of him, and as if stating something so very obvious the young girl said, “But this emptiness is forever.”
Wanting longingly to conclude this uncomfortable topic, she said, “So, I guess I will see you tomorrow then?”
“Yes, I imagine you will.” He replied.

And with that, the young lady was off. Nodding slightly to acknowledge her exit, the man then got up and started the walk back the direction which he had come. At this time of day, the street is lit in a faint, dirty orange glow, from a mixture of street lights and sunset. At this time of day, there is no one around; no one that you would want to meet anyway. Walking alone, in the direction that he thought would take him back to where he had awoken, he wondered why all of this. Why his life was like this, and what it was like before.

Finally reaching his intended destination, he noticed the car from this morning was gone and that the door was left wide open. He sat down, feeling uneasy, and knowing what the night had to bring. He looked about, for tools that would archive the happenings of this day. He found a pencil, and a pad that looked as if it had almost seen it’s own end. Feeling the pages left within it’s coils, he felt the indentations of previous writings, and wondered if they were his. On the floor was an increasing pile of those little shreds of paper that gather when you rip a large piece from it’s temporary bindings, and he wondered, who had been tearing out the paper. Using a rough, thick, rouged pencil; the kind that draws sketchy lead lines on paper, he was making a note, of the day’s events, and an explanation for actions he knew he could not resist. Not for himself really, as if he would even remembering writing it, but for this stranger who claimed to love him. Pressing hard, and leaving deep groves on the paper, like he had felt on the pad before, he wrote all that which he knew he had probably written before. Still unsure of his feelings for the woman, he tried to explain how it was impossible for him to love someone whom he didn’t even know. He wondered if by reading this, that she might get some peace, or if he had even said this to her before.

Upon finishing his note, he lied down, in the place where he had awoken earlier that day; in the only place he knew as home. And now, as if for the first time, he understood the desire to let blood flow. Lying there, he saw the beauty to let deep crimson liquid trickle down his pale forearm; to be undone and exposed. It was there, while sunken into deep rich velvet and hard protruding springs that he decided to let this end. To expel the nightmare of nothingness that he only knew as his life. And so it was there that our story begins, just in time for the morning. A pause as he lie there, watching the sun beam through the window and land on the opposite wall. He heard a car arrive in the drive way, sitting there idle, the driver not wanting to get out. It was there, while closing his eyes, and slipping back into his sleep, that he whispered, “Oh God, what have I done?”