“Your death, Tammy. Your death is the only atonement!” he yelled and violently threw her against her night stand. My mother, with her face a canvas smeared with blood, tears, and pain, used of her final breaths to utter that when they married, her life, her heart belonged to him. And that now he could do with it what he pleased. With that, he pulled from his coat a gun.
“Edward, I love you so mu…” A loud shot finished her sentence. The devastating and final full stop that punctuated my mother’s life.
An unforgettable moment. That she was cut silent in mid-syllable added additional impact to that moment--a "devastating and final full stop", indeed. Plus, what she was saying there gave that scene even more power.
Dophinimine is the cure for this nation’s disease because it attacks it at its heart….and that is yours…
*shudder* I find that line to be seriously disturbing... o__o;
It’s no longer odd to me that remembering the night my parents died “feels” exactly the same as remembering what I had for breakfast in the morning.
Also disturbing. To be under the influence of a drug that can make you trivialize a thing like that
The experiences of a lifetime constantly expand our understanding of the words we use and the things we feel. What is “ecstatic” one day is “content” the next, and what is “sorrowful” one day is “indifferent” the next. A series of calluses form as the events of every day pluck at our heart’s strings. The strings become worn and the hands that pluck become unaware of even having affected anything for the better or for the worse. And life becomes a song of loud and soft notes, missed notes and triumphant choruses, heavy beats and pitchy noise. It is either that Enjoyce has done us a great service, protecting everyone, by realizing that the notes played need not always be solely a function of what plucks the strings but also the configuration of the instrument, or that Enjoyce has done us a terrible disservice by disrupting the rhythm of our natural song.
I don’t know what plucked my father’s heart string that night, but the note played back was of grave consequence.
“Your death, Tammy. Your death is the only atonement!”
When I left that morning for school, I heard I high note of anxiety and anticipation of new things to come. And my mother died just that week. The next school day, I left my foster home with a high note of anticipation of new things to be learned. And there was no deep, bellowing tone in between.
I love the music analogy there. ^^ That part is very memorable, both for that reason and for just being well-written in general.
“You know what the problem with women today is, Michael?” he asked me in a low, secretive tone.
“The ones that I could’ve gotten are too damn happy on their own. That Dophinimine must be eliminating their need for happiness from a relationship, I think.”
“Nah man, I’m pretty sure it’s just you,” I laughed.
Heh, that last line made me chuckle.
Anyway, yes, I do imagine that Dophinimine would have a negative impact on relationships, both romantic and otherwise, since through eliminating the ability to really care about things one would also, I reckon, be eliminating the ability to form and hold attachment to another person.
”We’re sorry, Mrs. Rische…your baby has been still-born.”
When they told me this, I wondered mostly about how much time it would take to return the presents received at the baby shower. The more I think about it, the more I know my priorities were wrong.
Indeed they were. This is another example of just how disturbing Dophinimine's effects on a person's very humanity can be.
I embraced my son as tightly as is humanly…no, as tightly as is motherly possible. That’s because the love a mother has for her child is more than something that results in humane treatment or humane regard. It’s very much a force beyond being described as humane.
I liked that part. ^^ The distinct kind of love that mothers can have for their children is described quite nicely there.
Anxiety, fear, pain, love, things I can’t explain, things I haven’t felt so strongly in many years, flooded back, sharp blades piercing the thick lining of Dophinimine numbing my soul. I cried out because it hurt. The mental anguish was unbearable.
A great description of anguish. I especially like those feelings being referred to as being like sharp blades, and I also like the recognition of how much such emotions can genuinely hurt.
“I can’t get over how bright and beautiful you are. I saw you from the corner of my eye from all the way across the room. What is your name?”
“My name is Michelle, but people close to me call me 'Elle' for short. Like the letter ‘L’”.
“Well, you can’t spell love without Elle.”
"You can't spell love without Elle." Nice pickup line there, Michael. XD
“Now hold on, stranger. Aren’t you laying it on a little too thick? Eight ounces of cranberry juice will get you close, but you haven’t got my heart yet” she laughed as she took another sip from her glass. She looked back up at me with pale green eyes. “But I say that assuming that you want my heart...when really, you don’t. You’re looking for recreation, aren’t you? Because after you’ve done away with your sadness and pain, you’ve moved from searching for happiness in a higher purpose or meaningful relationship. You have it now and you will always have it as long as you keep your prescription filled. The search is over for you. But doesn’t that make you a shallow ******* to begin with? I mean, was your life’s purpose simply to pursue your own happiness? And now that you’ve found it, is it to simply revel in your contentment and complacency, disrespecting ideas like love and responsibility by reducing the women you meet to recreational fodder?”
This also ties in with what I mentioned earlier about how something like Dophinimine could affect relationships. Without attachment, all that would be left is a simple, physical urge to fulfill, in which case getting together with another person would basically be reduced to the same level as scratching an itch or going to the bathroom.
She lifted her glass to her face and paused. There apparently was a small smudge at a specific spot below the rim. “Hm. I wonder who drank out of this before me. And before then, who?”
“They can replace the glass.”
“Oh I know. I suppose it doesn’t matter which glass if all I’m looking for is the juice, right?”
“Yes, I suppose.” Even the simple questions I answered with caution. This whole encounter caught me off guard.
“Does it matter which pretty woman you sleep with when all you want is the gratification? There’s no difference from one to the next, is there? As if to demonstrate, Elle poured the cranberry juice into the glass she’d been drinking from prior and then sipped from it.
Her use of the glasses and cranberry juice in making her point was great. ^^
She stared off to her left and smiled. "Hmm, you weren't so presumptious as to call me 'Elle', a name reserved for people I deem to be close friends. That's nice, Michael. 72%”. My face must’ve been the sight of one humorously bewildered as Elle laughed when she turned back to face me. “Ha-ha, cuter when confused. 77%!" I cracked a small smile. It had become her game, she'd stolen it. "I never got your name, stranger.”
Again, I really like her use of percentages. ^^
“I guess you found it odd that I ordered a non-alcoholic beverage, specifically a bitter cranberry juice." She looked into her glass as she talked to me. "I saw it on your face.”
“It’s not odd, I just had assumed something different based on the beverages I consume, I suppose. But it’s erroneous to project my own habits on to someone else. I apologize if you were at all offended.”
“Oh no, Michael. I wasn’t offended. But I’d like to answer the question that was on your face." She looked up at me. "I drink a bitter, sharp cranberry juice because I don’t like to be numbed by alcohol. I don’t like to be numbed period. It's a very dangerous thing. You don’t eliminate scary things because you can’t feel fear," she said, raising her hands and waving them...scarily? "You can’t get rid of tragedy because you don’t have the ability to mourn. You can’t stay alive by turning a blind eye to what’s killing you.”
My favorite excerpt from the story thus far. I especially like the last paragraph due to the amount of the aforementioned Michelle-brand wisdom it contains.
Mr. Gowlman curled his index finger around the trigger of his handgun and pulled it back. The bullet whizzed through the air, tore through the cubicle wall and hit Nick right between the eyes. His blood splattered up and over the wall of my cubicle, landing on my lap, on my sleeves, on my face.
“Does anyone else feel like trying to dial for the police?!!” Mr. Gowlman shouted. I sat still, drops of blood on my face, and smiled.
I later hated myself for not crying when he got shot. I hated myself for not feeling anything. Is heaven losing a friend of five years and feeling nothing at all? No, that’s not what heaven is. This
is a twisted reality, we are a twisted people. Misshapen, soulless beings, ignoring half of the human experience.
A very close runner-up for favorite excerpt because of the sheer power
of it. That scene did an especially excellent job of showing just how Dophinimine separates a person from their humanity, and is a prime example of how the impact and memorability of a shocking event like the murder of someone's friend right in front of them is increased greatly by the unnatural inability of the character to respond appropriately to what he's just experienced.