Dreams Who Never Come True

Chapter 14: I Want to Ask You, For Answers

The wooden texture of the desk, and its smooth surface, caress me as I trace my finger against the rim of my desk. Back and forth, in a forever loop. A never-ending cycle, just like the world girding me. This loop I forced myself into was one I could single-handedly break. The world girding me, is one that I'm unsure of. Whether I can escape or not, that is the question.

  I lean back, and gaze up, straight at the ceiling of my room. It's bland, inundated with nothing but one color. White. I knew artists, the ones who painted murals and crafted sculptures, often argue that white is not a color. For me, it is a color, that's just concealed. Once white is blended with another color, it evinces a new form of itself.

  In my left hand, I spin another black pen. I reiterate this motion over and over again, a motion of spinning the pen over my thumb. My thumb was held flat against my hand, and my index finger would push the pen onto my thumb, causing for it to spin. Then, I'd catch it.

  Some time flew by, as I just stared up, and spun my pen. My pen continued to dance around my fingers, and I am careful to not let it slip and fly off like a bird. Those who are like élans, like Neorong, enamor themselves enough to allow them to soar high into the sky. Those who aren't, are left to find their own paths. Some knew what sort of paths they should take, while some didn't. It's easier to follow someone else's ideal future for yourself, instead of choosing on your own.

  Then, my pen slips. It tumbles onto the ground, grazing past my finger as it went. A line, like one of a laceration, forms itself on my index finger. Then, exuding out of the laceration comes lurid black blood. I vigorously then shake my hand, and the blood finds itself all over my desk. Yet again, this splotches scene came to be.

  However, this time it was different. This time, I understood. What are these splotches? I knew this time. I knew exactly and precisely what it was, and the cause for it. I know how to rid of these splotches. Thus, as of now, I cannot rid of any of these splotches.

  So, I walk away from my desk, and out the door. I shut the door behind me, and navigated my way outside of my house.

  ~*~

I find myself in the garden gridding the periphery of my house. Euphoric winds yet again batter me, swinging my hair back. Why are these winds euphoric? It's because they are giddy, with sadistic smiles engraved on their 'expressions' whenever they assail someone with all their might.

  The vitality of the garden, full of flowers, grass, life. It was lush green, with traces of other colors splattered all over it. As if an artist has taken a palette of colors and thrown it all over the garden. Or as if this was a painting, and the strokes of a brush or pen was being dotted all over the canvas, filling the once-plain canvas with colors.

  This is the first time, in a while, where I have come to realized the world around me. It wasn't just a dystopia; there was also beauty behind the darkness. Perhaps this is what my mother adumbrated by beauty behind the rotten mess. Perhaps, I'm beginning to open up, and acknowledge the rest of the world around me.

  Then, whiffs of darkness shroud my sight. It coalesces in front of me, filling the painting with nothing but the color, black. It's subterfuge to inhibit me, however, was futile. Or so I thought.

  I blink. I shut my eyelids, then I lift them again. Of course, I was hallucinating and being delusional, so all I had to do was shove away the delusional thoughts that clouded my mind. When I opened my eyes, nothing changed. What.

  I felt benighted the minute I noticed how the fog never shifted in any way. I rashly thought my empirical beliefs would come to my aid. I was wrong.

  As I stood there in my dismay, the fog then began to lift. My hallucination was finally dispersing. Yet again, it, quite annoyingly, was ostensible. It was either my hallucinations, or me who was recalcitrant. I couldn't tell.

  In front of my eyes, was yet again, the boy full of indigence. And the irascible and choleric man. This time, I choose to take notice of their features. However, for whatever reason, I found difficulties doing so. As if the scene in front of me was a blurry picture, one that I was struggling to decipher.

  The man holds the boy up by his neck. He lifts the boy, so easily, as if the boy was some lightweight piece of paper. Rage courses through his eyes. His eyes are a piercing pink-color, and his hair was some cloudy white color. His nature was vicious, but his appearance made him look gentle. Very gentle, in comparison to the person I've seen him as. Draped over his shoulders, is a fluffy, buttoned-up, contradicting white and black coat. For whatever reason, the coat hung like a cape, as if the man was someone of authority.

  I see that he is quite muscular. Muscles are weaved into his arms, explaining how he easily lifted up the boy. Ew, I think, stopping myself from gagging.

Then, I turn my attention towards the choking boy. His skin is a tanner tone, with messy and dirty dark brown hair and dark, crimson eyes. Do I have a convert relative of some sort, living a life in hell with a disgusting man?

"Listen, boy." The man hisses, in a low tone, slightly loosening his grip on the boy's neck, "You are no one else's. You are mine—all mine. I, and not anyone else, own you. So obey me, boy. Otherwise, I'll torture you for eternity, or until you die. I will forever haunt you, boy. You cannot escape me."

The boy then falls back onto the ground. Yet again, I try to enter the scene being displayed in front of me. As I drew nearer, the scene slowly began to freeze. I watched, as the breathing of both of them halted. As if they were dead, and I have just put an end to their life by walking up to them.

Carefully, I touch the boy's rough hands. His hands are full of dirt, but yet, they feel smooth. Smooth, as if he were someone who was kind. Someone, unlike my father, who cared for other's and their wellbeing. Uneasily, I wonder, why is it that the kind people in the world are the ones who go through the most pain?

I then walk out of the scene, and watched it as the scene then continued. I felt like I was watching a play, with a few breaks here and there scattered about the performance's time.

Silently, under my breath, I pray for the boy, hoping he'll be alright. If he existed here, in my present time, then I will set a goal to find him. A part of me wished to comfort him, tell him everything was going to be alright. Another part of me told myself that I should extricate him, from the turbulent man who continuously tortures and beats him, who is only concerned about himself, and not about the boy's own wellbeing.

But, before anymore of the scene plays itself in front of me, the man lifts the gun, and points it directly towards me. He asks, "Who are you?"

Fog then falls back in accretion. Soon, I found myself back into the landscape of the garden. Not for a second, did I have the time to respond to the man's question. Nor did I see what else happened. How did he notice me? I ask, but, that's another question I can't have an answer to until I find the answer myself.

Ascetically, I sigh. I plop down onto the ground, and then lay back onto the ground. Instigated and imbued within me was a sudden urge to find the answers. However, today, I could not do so.

I've answered one question, of the answers being achievable. But, another question arose along with that answer. How will I achieve the answers?

Were the answer reclusive? Were they gratuitous? None of that I'll ever know, until I find it myself. Will I be ready for answers?

From one answer, comes many questions. That's the peril when it comes to asking questions. The more I ask, the more questions arise, the more I try to find answers. It was risible, prevalent, and felt illusory. It was also strikingly annoying, for being unremitting. I knew it; there had to be a point where I'd draw the line and cut it there. A point where I will no longer keep asking and seeking answers. But yet, here comes another question: Where will I draw the line?

While I thought about this, I could imagine a pseudonym doing the job for me. I felt the creases of a line, being marked in my mind, but, I didn't have a clue for where this line was located. I was left in the dark, yet again, and this time, it was because of my own self, or someone else using guile to control me. But, there was no possible way, for someone to be able to manipulate me, because no one I knew of was manipulative in that way. Right?