literature

The Madness of Angels

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Sometimes at night I still dream of the glass garden which I had planted, molten pillars of flame that were cool to the touch- the gates of heaven which I had fashioned in her likeness. It wasn’t what one might call Eden though; far from it. The only commonality that this place and the mythological one shared were perhaps in its finer details: being lost, perhaps the one that sticks out like a sore thumb.

I discovered some years ago when I had slipped out of my teenage arrogance that in fact, I was more sentimental a being than perhaps I would have liked to admit- definitely more so than I imagine I give a hint at. Logic had been my weapon against the confusing algorithms that ruled the mechanics of society- the smoke that used to stink up the sandwich shop near my school, the parties which I never bothered to go, the gossip about so and so person whom I had never found attractive. When I turned sixteen, I decided that I had been hanging around the wrong crowd after I had been offered a pinch of some illegally obtained crack. Had I been anybody else, I probably would have taken it.

I never regretted leaving those people behind, of course; if anything, it still terrifies me to this day when I look back at that crossroads. Just a few months ago, the local news blared out a headline that spoke of a nearby shooting in the city, one dead and three wounded. When I realized that the face of one of the victims stirred a few dormant memories that still lay within me, I had felt revulsion rise at the back of my throat, bitter and unconstrained.

(I had trouble sleeping for the rest of that week. Nobody asked why.)

It goes back several years actually, back to a time where I would have preferred to never touch again- those uncomfortable days when I wasn’t quite a child in body, not quite an adult yet in mind. My family had never taken the news of my bisexuality well, calling it a delusion since Asians supposedly lacked something they called the “gay gene”. On the other hand, I held the burden of juggling seven academics and a few harassers whenever I set foot into high school. It was around this period when I began seeking some form of escape, finding this in the quiet strokes of a paintbrush or the webs of fantasy which I would weave for myself over pens and old notebooks. God knew that it only helped so much.

So I was lonely. It was sort of like viewing the world through a lens- you see it, but you’re never in it. A little girl pointing at a doll she wants on the other side of a display. A real doll whom you’d take and screw knowing that the price of her affection was a drink and fifty bucks. Something along the lines of that, there but… hollow- an existence that rolled along like a wheel stamped in monotony: get up, eat, go to class, come back home, eat, do homework, sleep. I hadn’t believed that there could be anything else in store for me, being the worst of combinations- a pessimistic fatalist.

It was kind of like those clichéd chick flicks, now that I look back at it: fourth period Pre-Calc, the whole class pretty much either dead or dying. The stifling hotness of the stale air, made even more repugnant by the fact that it was the last course of the day and that nobody really cared about the theroms behind imagery numbers. Then the door busted open and in came an apologetic girl, who for some reason was wearing one of those uniforms you might see in either an anime or a really un-Catholic private school. She took seat in the empty desk to my left, so I told myself why not?

Later, I found out that she was in my Home Economics class. We burnt the cookies together and I learned her name was Amalie over the smell of melted chocolate chips, and the disapproval of our teacher.

There had been something about her that I couldn’t really put my finger on; she was different- and in a good way. Fond of wearing miniskirts even in the middle of winter, and had an obsession with all things 50's. It’s kind of sad to look back at it now because goddamn it, we had been so… clean back then. So naïve, and innocent, and eager to believe the good of things- made vows that we would break about smoking and drink; drugs on her list of evils that would be there in less than a thousand days from when we met each other for the first time. It’s hard to put the feeling into words, but at that time- that time- I came to love her.

It was quite a revelation, you see- for I had thought prior that I wasn’t capable of whatever that emotion entitled- the one that began with an L and ended with the storm of blind infinities. I understood its sister like all people did, especially as it was that time of a person’s life where they would bang anything that had two legs, a hole, and moved. The connection and the link that was supposed to stich a relationship together- that was something I had always dismissed with a snort, cynicism being my excuse.

It had of course, ended in shambles. I never told her and she went off with another person, then I moved and didn’t see her again- until now, when it was her face on the newspapers; the same face whom I had worshipped in silence with the words “killed” under it, red like her blood on the pavement. I had cried, I think, and now I understood why.

None of us had been invincible in the end. After you’ve climbed a mountain, you still have to come down again. Now, and forever- what were we but… human? In the end, you could only hope- hope, and regret and ask the two worded plea, clutching the pieces of your shattered heart around you and wondering if things could have ever been...

(different.)

-Le FINIS-
My entry for :iconxwritersutopiax: 's short story contest. It's been a while since I last wrote anything, and I wanted to explore something darker this time instead of just a personal narration. This piece- The Madness of Angels "- is more or less a collection of stories based on my life, the lives of some of my friends, and a tiny bit of fictional narrative mashed together until it became this. Hopefully, it didn't bore you out of your pants...

*** Note that the limit was 1050 words, which is the length of the story. However, because of my equivalent of "the end" (le finis) at the end is two words and isn't a part of the prose, it is 1052 words when scanned by a computer. Please disregard the extra two as mentioned as they are NOT part of the actual monologue, thanks. ***

Anyhow, I hope I do well! Constructive crit. is encouraged~

(Photo credit goes to bohomoth.com)
© 2014 - 2024 AryaMay
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Laliya's avatar
so long since i read anything from you. i like it, and i hope you win the contest~~