Manifesto The young man’s eyes betrayed him. You would never be able to truly believe that he was only twenty years old. His aged eyes were worn out and sad, the eyes of one whom perhaps had seen too much. Gone through a thousand years of life in so few. The world around him was a clever illusion, a gluttonous devourer of youth parading about as an infinitesimal well of hope. He was not easily fooled however. Like a master painter studying his surroundings, the young man stripped the landscape down to the bare skeleton, frail and crying out in the void. The hues of blue and green faded slowly, until only the black and grey remained. This was the true world, at least this much he knew. The world, in its infancy, perhaps had much more hope. It must have been so. Growing and stumbling, veering off in its own reckless course, all in due time. It is true that man had shaped and perhaps coaxed the world to fill its own ill begotten means. Man has always had such great and noble intentions. Somewhere along the way, the struggling beast of burden crashed headlong off the path and into a collision course that would end with degradation. Perhaps now is the time for someone else to be given a chance. Mankind has not done the world a justice. It is easy to see that our world, the human world, has reached its old ages, and it cries out for justice, for freedom, for death. We must speed up the process. The young man sits outside in the cold rain, studying the passerby. The smell of kerosene is somewhat masked by the sweet petrichor. He is resolute in his final act. He fumbles for the lighter in his jacket, the lighter given to him by the love of his life. The pink lighter etched with her name, Kristine. Three clicks, tap the side, click again. A little ritual that helps him remember her. He reaches into his coat again and withdraws a pack of crumpled Camels. He lights up and takes a long drag, letting the odour of the smoke escape from his lungs and punch the fresh misty air. The streetlight overhead flickers, casting a dim golden light over him. To the average passerby, he would appear to be the Messiah. He places the lighter back into his coat pocket, and leans back against the bench. He begins to nervously caress his hands, fingering the scars and scratches and the silver bracelet. A memento from their trip to the beach. That is all his life has become. A nostalgic cocoon of memory, pain, laughter, tears, and knick knacks. He is becoming more and more a passenger in his life, paying rent in order to participate with the outside world. If only they could look into his eyes, no, his soul, and see what has nested in his heart. The inhuman monster that has burrowed into the decaying heart and made a home, feasting upon the shell of the man that he is. Would they understand him? Would the understand his shame, his fear, his happiness? Or would they write him off? The rain begins to taper as he begins to do battle with his various demons again, the gorgeous filth that has settled over his psyche and that protrudes from his mind. The creatures that whisper his name at two in the morning and keep him awake, constantly alone and growing paranoid. The onset of schizophrenia. The young man snuffs out the cigarette and reaches into his pocket once more. He moves his hand around, feeling first for the switchblade and then for the handle of the gun. He finds cold comfort in both of them. The switchblade was a gift from his father, the man who raised him despite not knowing what he was doing. The gun he found in a trashcan behind work, like a sign from God or something much more sinister. It is time. He looks up again. The streetlight begins to fade as the light bulb dies, almost as if it sad to see him go. This is the streetlight where they found her, hung up like a ghost. The suicide note simply read “Eighteen was a hell of a year.” The noose wrapped its greedy fingers around her throat, as Death, eager to be what Life was, took another tragic heart. She died quickly. He looks back down as the switchblade emerges from his pocket. With skilled precision, the skill that takes time, he carved two words into his arms; Death and Life. Turning his hands over, shaky from the loss of blood, he carves the words Youth and Struggle. It is amazing what you can do when you have consigned yourself to death. Time is no longer the enemy, but rather the willful accomplice. He looks down the quickly emptying street, following the three people that are coming up the street. He gets up and starts walking towards them, his hand and the guns eagerly meeting each other. He draws it before they can realize what is happening, and quickly fires off six shots. The smell of blood and the sound of their skulls as they crack on the sidewalk break the dead air. The two men die quickly, while the girl clings to Life’s clammy hands. She is quite beautiful, the red of her lips clashing with the white of her pure skin. I am so sorry. She begins to relax her breathing, hoping that help is on the way. Help was never on the way. Humanity has abandoned itself. He sits down next to the little group, withdraws the lighter. He imagines where they were coming from. Maybe it was the movies. A social gathering. Maybe they were just walking. He sticks a final cigarette in his mouth; filter stained with dirt and blood. He begins to feel woozy, likely from the loss of blood. Three clicks tap the side, click again. One last thing. He reaches for his phone, shakily pulls it out. Brand New begins to pour from the phone, Jesus Christ flowing from the speakers and seeping into the ground, the air, his skin. He drops the lighter. There is no pain. There is no sound. The world ends with the musk of spilt blood and burning flesh, and for a moment, the young man is God. The streetlight flickers out as the rain drums up a sad song once more.
Posted on: Tue, 09 Jul 2013 04:45:45 +0000
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