Please
|

About the Author
I am the never ending story with a grand finale
Rating
94%
 (1 votes)

Click on an image below to link to other sections...
Visitor Number:
3,143,383
  • Chopper Stories
  • Writers Harbor
  • Writers Harbor
  • God-in-a-Box
  • Steps On My Road
Follow us on:
View Work
Be the first person to like this story !!
The Man That Ruined My Life
The Man That Ruined My Life



He stands before me with eyes bloodshot from too much hard living. Bastard doesn't even acknowledge my presence so it seems. But I know that he knows I am here. I'm always here. I always come back to him no matter what.
He is aging. Rapidly. His eyes, as I have stated, are bloodshot. The kind of bloodshot that scares little kids when they look up at him as he stumbles along in his perpetual drunken stupor. Lines have formed at the corners of those chaotically enhanced red eyes. Lines that slowly blend into other lines that etch his face as if carved by an angry artist with a chisel gone mad. His hair is fading to gray as well as falling out like soldiers under fire. You can almost hear the crash as the strands that leap to their death hit the ground. He has developed a slight twitch, or spasm if you prefer, in the left corner of his mouth. I also notice the hardness of his unshaven jaw. A hardness that has grown through the agony of traveling through the time of his life. His hands shake even though he struggles to keep that from me. Perhaps so that he will show no sign of weakness in my presence or perhaps it is pride. Whichever, it is irrelevant for I do notice it. He stands with shoulders slumped. I do not even think he can carry them high anymore like he did in his boisterous youth. He has become an enbattled veteran of the war against aging and he is losing said war. Unfortunately.
I should feel sorrow for his condition, but I do not. I only feel a deep loathing. A loathing for all the things this breathing carcass has done to me. It is a disgust so deep that I could rip out his heart and not mind the blood dripping down upon my shoes. I would scream at him, but his hearing weakens daily. I feel like striking him, but the boniness of his body would probably hurt me more than it would him. I could walk away I suppose. However, I do not like turning my back on him. I do not trust him. And besides, I have tried before and failed too many times to count.
He was never really there for me, but he also never would leave me alone either. I think he stuck around just to see me falter. Whenever life's little tests would come my way, his advice...when he actually gave it....always turned out to be useless. He would always find ways to drag me down into the muck of his tormented little world. No matter how I tried to rise above him, he would grab hold of me, in one way or another, and pull me beneath the waves of despair that he floundered within. My life has become a preposterous fallacy due to his mendacious antics.
I do not know how much longer I can take this. But I know myself, and what he has molded me into, and I will continue to take it. Over and over again.
I stare right on through him and he stares back through me. Neither of us seeing the other. Only seeing what we would like the other to become. Knowing that it will never happen.
His eyes look into mine. I look away in contempt and in shame.

Stupid mirror.


Legion
01Dec07

I am the never ending story with a grand finale.
 
Francis Meyrick

I always like the story that has a "twist" at the end. The hidden knife.

QuoteStupid mirror.

Acid. I like a bit of pungent acid once in a while. Cleans the system out.

Introspection is an interesting feature. Whether this story is just that, a story, or whether it is based on a deeper auto-awareness, the way so many artists wrestle with self has been the source of great writing and Art in general.
I'm tempted to mention Vincent van Gogh here. A tormented soul, and this internal cauldron bubbled over most productively in his work.
QuoteI stare right on through him and he stares back through me. Neither of us seeing the other. Only seeing what we would like the other to become. Knowing that it will never happen.
His eyes look into mine. I look away in contempt and in shame.

Yes, how many of us have been there, or are going there.
Still, might as well get our ticket's worth, and give the bastards hell, while we're at it.
("Storm and Fire")
But I think on a quieter note, maybe  not quite so bitter, I've visited this issue on a slightly different plane.

Funnily enough, it has a video of Vincent van Gogh...
It's called "Starry, starry night".
More acidic, I guess was my offering "No Man is an island"


QuoteHe was never really there for me, but he also never would leave me alone either.

That's an interesting line.
To it, I say:   "Let's Ride!"

More. Keep 'em coming.
Grin


We little humans, hurtling through the Universe on our tiny, pale blue dot, will find few answers to Life's great mysteries. But we should at least find many of the questions. To write is to ask. To seek. To grope. With humility, and humor. Peace.
Posted on Tuesday, August 23, 2011 at 18:32:31

 
Francis Meyrick

@ whoamI

No, actually, I quite like looking in the spiritual/emotional mirror sometimes.
What I see ain't always pretty, but sometimes, it's not so bad.

Writers, artists, in general have to be aware of the downside of becoming way too "self absorbed". There's a whole world out there, with people. Good, bad, stupid, wise, kind, ugly, and there is also a sub-human species referred to as "politicians".
I'm all for writers exploring all aspects of their environment and experiences.
Like I said, sometimes I like "a bit of acid". Cleans the system out.
Introspection is just fine, in moderation, like sex or bananas. Too much of a good thing detracts. I've met some cloistered off writers, shut up in an emotional turret, grimly pondering the minutest detail of their inner psyche.
(yawn). That gets to be boring. Not healthy.
I like to explore everything. From the sublime to the ridiculous (politicians).
By the way, I just found a "mirror poem" I wrote. It's at the other end of the serious scale, however!
It's called "Streak of Mischief".
I'm all for exploring everything. A good writer should tackle Dark, Light, Hope, Despair, introspection, irony, humour, slapstick, satire, Romance, Love, fuk'n pist orf mad-as-hell and I-ain't-gonna-take-it-no-more, and anything else that comes to mind.
Because, that's the way Life is. We should paint it all, taste it all, ride 'em all, and fly 'em all.

Grin

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 24, 2011, 8:47 am


We little humans, hurtling through the Universe on our tiny, pale blue dot, will find few answers to Life's great mysteries. But we should at least find many of the questions. To write is to ask. To seek. To grope. With humility, and humor. Peace.
Posted on Wednesday, August 24, 2011 at 08:30:15

comments powered by Disqus
Copyright © 2007-2015 Writers Harbor
Visitor Number:
3,143,383