Monday, December 27, 2010

Story: Realization One

As I promised, here it is. The first of ten stories. The first truth. I got the idea upon a chilly evening when I was walking along a street in Brno (a town where I study, it is an incredibly ugly place to live - shabby, dirt everywhere, neglected buildings, too crowded). Having caught flu, I didn't feel very well and even the rumbling of cars passing by was annoying me. The story pretty much reflects the city's atmosphere and mentality, although it's about people in general, not just Brno. Enjoy the read.

Realization One

He was but a single man. A lone person. Reality was full of betrayal. Of cruelty. Of twisted, morbid injustice.

It was so different from an hour ago. He believed that his existence had a meaning. That there was something beyond the greyness of a day. That he was alive. The skies were cloudy but still not black.

His life wasn't easy, but he always persisted. He always had faith in the future. He always placed his hopes on the dawn of a new day. But an hour ago, he could never have known that it was to be his last.

He led an ordinary life. A dull life. Waking up to a dreary world with his vision blue. His house was a small, confining place, but the outside was no different. People and their energy leeching traits around them were forcing him to retreat. His job was a boring stereotype, a repetitious process happening every day. Food was tasteless. Entertainment bleak. Movement still. People empty.

Only at nights did his desperation wear out, replaced by a dream of a bright day. A day without greyness. Ironically, he somehow knew the world would never recover and his hopes were false.

An hour ago, he finally realized. In the moments of an ending life, a dying soul, a faulty body, a slowing heartbeat, the clock was ticking at insane rate. The world was passing by so quickly.

An hour ago, he was ambushed by a group of thugs in an overcrowded and never-sleeping town.

"Your money," they demanded, threatening him with knives and guns. He conformed and gave the muggers what they wanted, but was stabbed in the stomach five times and then shot in the chest.

The group of punks made off laughing, leaving him to lie in his own pool of blood on the pavement. He tried to crawl towards lamp-posts and call for help. To no avail.

Some stopped near him, shaking their heads in disbelief and then going away, disappearing in the distance. Many just walked around, not bothering at all. More didn't even look at him, acting as if he wasn't there pleading for help. Yet even more didn't realize he was lying on the ground and sometimes stepped on him and then cursed as to why drunks are tolerated in the city.

He couldn't do anything at all to save himself. Wheezing and coughing blood, he felt bitterly separated. He had never done anything bad to anyone. In fact, he had always tried to help. To be there for others. But in the end, they had taken it for granted, becoming angry when he couldn't have been. And in times like this, times when he was in need, they turned their backs on him.

He didn't understand why he had to suffer such fate, but he grew more disillusioned with each second. He didn't want the much needed help any longer. Lights wouldn't save him anyway. People wouldn't notice.

People were dead. They were so egoistic and greedy that they were not even there. They were chasing after their puny goals, which were made up of vanity and nothing.

They had been transformed over time. Once, vanity had been the dominant trait, but as years had gone by, vanity had changed into emptiness. Their thoughts were ill, their emotions out of place and their sense of adequacy and realization eliminated.

They would never help. They only wanted to be helped. And so was everything they had ever built. Cars, pavements, lamps, computers or books. Everything they ever created was as empty as them.

Within minutes, people walking around seemed like faults in the world he lived in. Dimensions falling apart. Cars driving on the street like flickering, twitching and shaking dissonances that were becoming unbearable.

He could no longer live in that place, for everything was unforgiving and cruel. Everything was hostile. Every movement, every purpose. Even the lights were against him. Clouds were gone, skies were black.

He had finally seen through. Reality was beyond morbid sarcasm. Beyond blood, flesh and bone. Reality was a merciless clockwork machine crushing everything caught between its cogs regardless of expressions, terms or beliefs. Justice and punishment were one and their name was time. And crimes? Everything that happened.


  1. I like your metaphoric language; nicely done.
    And welcome to Write1Sub1! It's sure to be a great year of writing for us all.

  2. Thank you again. I'm sure it will be!