This was originally going to be a one-shot, but I decided to turn this into a short story...which isn't so short now that I've decided to tackle this with my NaNoWriMo project. Good news is, this might actually get finished o:
Slow reading is advised.
A narration may be provided later for people with dyslexia.
Rated PG:15+ for mentioned drug use, violence, blood and gore and mature sexual themes that I don't feel like detailing about (it's for the better).
The Last Day of Summer: Chapter 1 [written] [recorded]
Morning Obsession: Chapter 2 [written] [recorded]
Gratitude: Chapter 3 [written] [recorded]
Decomposition: Chapter 4 [written] [recorded]
Foreword: Chapter 5 [written] [recorded]
The First Night of Autumn: Chapter 6 [written] [recorded]
Take the Plunge: Chapter 7 [written] [recorded]
Chapter 1: The Last Day of Summer
The wind picked up, and he shivered, bringing his legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.
It wasn’t until a few hours later that he fell asleep, his tucked body resting uncomfortably on the ornate, rusted metal armrest.
It must’ve been difficult, I thought. The wind frequently brought a few drops of autumn shower and he was far from protected from the cold. Silk, it must’ve been. He won’t survive for long.
There wasn’t anyone else to entertain my presence. Sometimes, I would count the cars that came and went underneath me. A convenience, perhaps, was that I could tell the exact time as humans followed by counting the cars.
I don’t know what else there would’ve been to this. Few passed without stopping by, and fewer acknowledged the old metal bench (which had been around for a while now) that sat in my shadow. The ones who had were the exceptions I witnessed. They were the humans that gave meaning to my assumptions.
It wasn’t hard to psychoanalyse them. The fading bench, already rusting in splashed blotches was evidence of quite a melancholy existence.
I had seen them all unfold since its fixture.
I remember them all.
For the sake of all things sad that may have resulted, I might have shed a tear.
If I could, I may have contributed my own splash of rust.
He is another one. To my thirst, they dripped, through the gaps of the skeletal bench, giving some false resurrection to the autumn harvest of leaves.
I wonder, somehow. It is such a human thing to do, but I wonder.
And I also brood.
Maybe I shouldn’t, especially for a human.
I wonder again, but perhaps, the brooding lingers. It strains me, so I stop.
I proceed to count cars again, but they had all left, leaving him quite alone and abandoned.
When I realise that I was brooding again, I stop.
I attend to the birds, as I would do when my mind rests, but the majority had gone off for the colder months.
Perhaps there is a lot more to existing. Humans see me as a symbolic denizen of age-old wisdom, yet there are rarely times when I ponder. Pondering is not a thing I’m supposed to do often. They sometimes reject me for doing it, but what harm could befall one who ponders? I don’t know, but I don’t have much of a circle of acquaintances and my mind feels like breaking whenever I ponder too hard or too long.
Perhaps it is counterproductive for me to think. It is not of our nature to think, and I may needlessly adapt myself for its demands. Thinking does me no good, for my movements are limited. Humans think to act. We cannot act and therefore, thinking is meaningless to us.
It hurts when I think about it, so I settle down a little, before I realise that the pain had derived from thinking too much.
A car passes beneath, recklessly.
I cringe at its trail as I sense it rising like a soul into the cosmos, tainting it.
It has become an adaptation that I’m subjected to toxic mist every day from dawn to dusk, but it feels so much easier to criticise this gasp of trail when it feels so alone, so injured as it is ripped apart by the cold air.
And I can’t help but think of him.
He sleeps beneath me in a suspended, emotionless state. Only when he sleeps, that his humanly anguish is washed away; an empty, cold memory in its wake remaining as he awakens.
I really do wonder, and brood, for the morning when he awakens.
He exhales an aromatic mist that dissipates as it is torn apart by the cool air – just like the trail of that car. I catch only fibres of it, but each strand tells so much a serene tale that I become curious to know more. An animal’s gasp contains much more than salivary mist; it is the breath of a living soul – an essence from the miracle of life itself.
Yet, I cannot grasp anything real from my harvest.
His is much more than a shattered breath.
It is the essence of some forlorn emotion, an essence that I have no ability to comprehend to the fullest.
I am clouded by an instinct to neglect it, and by another to dismiss it as merely warm air.
I would need to rebel against nature, if I were to intrude further, but my curiosity seems to see no problem in me doing so.
This has become excruciating, almost a suffering.
I am at a loss.
I don’t know what to do.
It is uncomfortable, but my disposition does not allow me any remedy.
I need to rest.
But I didn’t know how to sleep. It is an animalistic tendency to sleep, something that I lack within my anatomy.
It is essentially heresy for us to be able to fall asleep.
But I did, somehow. I must’ve been the first of our kind to do so.
The wind picked up again, and I shivered.