Literature

[SHORT STORY[: VIOLET

One day Life met Death then asked him, “Why do people love me but hate you so much?”

The Death answered: “Maybe it is because you are the beautiful lie and I am the painful truth. “

The man in all-black suit takes another step climbing up the stairs toward the church. He has always been holding a strong grudge against these, for church, Bible and sins, for particular reasons. But this time, he makes an exception, setting his feet inside the gothic building, bearing an urge to escape immediately.

As he approaches the only object he has already set his eyes on since the first time he reached this place, he walks between the aisle. He wonders what it feels like to see a wedding march here, and how awfully blissful to have his own wedding in here. Even though it obviously only exists in his mind he can’t help not to scoff at how ridiculous that idea is.

If he could have it then he should have lived with his own happiness with the one he loves.

But fate seems too cruel for someone like him. And will always be.

It has never been this blue yet it is such senseless cold grey of anguish.

People are moving inside the building, mourning solemnly over medium of custom which God had once blown a soul within. They are calling her name, whispering words of consolations, giving their endless prayers, chain of sentences being spoken in repetition. As the crowd goes by, bowing and nodding at his presence, offering their hugs and hands for the sake of his loss. But he isn’t trying to reciprocate them, he does not want to show such weakness for man should take care of his own emotions and endure the unbearable.

Nevertheless, at this very moment, when time seems stuck in the middle of its own space, yielding to enormous grief and inconsolable wound. He does not dare himself to call her name because he knows when that name comes out the beholder is no longer there to give a reply. And he is not ready for that madness.

It is only a meter away from the solid metal coffin, the icy claws grip his chest mercilessly, won’t letting him to take a breath as bead of crystal welled up in his eyes. How could be someone like him feel such feelings? The broken heart is like dying without even being buried.

It is as if he could be.

No, it wasn’t one of feelings he wished he could feel. These strange feelings he has never felt before, more devastating than the battlefield, more painful than being crushed.

So, is it only the faithless who knows the tragedies of love yet the faithful only acknowledges the trivial side of love? It might not only a single loss but what could words have scribbled under the parchment, what could have those poets put into their ink and papers about the sympathy for suffering?

He has, finally, more human than he ever could and felt in his thoroughly crippled life. He has felt sympathy, affection and love towards this god’s most mystifying creature; the one and only who could make him feel that way. Although he’d only feel certain feelings toward a certain woman, the reason he could be more alive and be human. As if a creature like him could determine the meaning of ‘being alive’.

You are terrifying and strange and beautiful. Something not everyone knows how to love….

He remembers the melodic voice was chiming tuneful words each night they sprawled under the starry night sky. Then an echo rushes to his head.

He is so foreign, he is indeed very terrifying. People tend to avoid somebody like him. He is a monster, they say.

The pale skin under his touch is cold and stiff. That lanky figure cannot see her chest moving up and down heavily like it used to be. And blood has drained out of her body, her finely curved lips are no longer showing any signs of liveliness, though still tempting like wilted rose. She is now all but magnificent creature displayed under dim luxury dome, chiseled and made by wax and rusty iron, dressed in her finest gown, adorned with shining jewels and precious gold. It brings the taller man some realisation that the one he loves, that lying inside the coffin, is no more than an empty shell.

A dead corpse.

”The light of my life, the light of my soul…” Whisper escapes his mouth, penetrated into her ears, yearning to reach inside, that maybe, just maybe, she could still hear him.

It is perfectly monstrous the way people asking about the existence of your soul as if you are not the same creature as human….

She taught him how to fall in love, how to burn on fire every time their skin grazed each other’s. But she didn’t teach him how to stop. That the aches inside his chest are real, the pain is inevitable, so does the suffering.

”This is sympathy, ” The girl lingered her arms around the taller’s waist, staring straight to pair of eyes leading to single path that bares her soul. Now the other wondered if she’d laugh at the sound of her heart thumping, it was so loud and embarrassing. But love is something not to be ashamed about.

”It is affection, ”  It was astonishingly weird that this girl, all with her excitement, curiosity, and those vibrant colors radiating pair of vivid eyes could put him to the edge of falling. Her lips reached his forehead for nearly a minute before she took step back to see his reaction. And the shorter chuckled at his priceless expression.

”Love, it is love. ”

Then he remembers all he could think of that he ought to follow where his heart had led him to. He remembers pressing her neck, carefully claiming those irresistible lips and felt the massive electricity jolted down his veins. It was exciting, exceedingly exhilarating.

”I know…”

He could feel it.

If he could only pray to God, that one more chance to see the sparkle in her eyes would be more than enough. He would give all the eternity, offer thousands of apologizes, then he would conjure purest affection towards her, to love and adore her in sufficient amount of courage. Because he would rather have had one kiss from her mouth, one touch of her hand, than eternity without it.

Love me when I least deserve it; because that’s when I really need it.

The man gives one last kiss to his lover although it does not lessen the pain, he makes a choking sound from his dry throat, even suffocating to breathe. Then it is love’s strength to magnify people’s feelings as equal as its power to abuse them.

He lies his forehead against hers, closing his eyes, doesn’t try to suppress the misery crawling inside. He is mouthing the same words repeatedly, over and over again like a mantra, wishing it would give him miracles to wake the younger up.

One day The wind blew out of the cloud by the night

Chilling the life out of the mortal flesh which yield to fight

Shall you put roses on this tomb and weep?

For the sake of what is seen extends only skin-deep

I shall not hear your requiem

For I am thousands of iridescent glows interfering the dream

I am the shadow of your somber cave

I am the unkissed kisses, the unsung songs, the reddish blue for those who grief

Yet I slept on your arm

And for the excess of this love is dumb

I shall be reborn from your embrace gracing the warm

As I shall reopen my eyes for the sake of purplish violet creating this numb.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s