The stories we tell ourselves

"We tell ourselves stories in order to live." - Joan Didion, in The White Album

I remember reading The White Album back in 2016. It was some time ago now; I was 19 then, serving out my mandatory conscription like every other guy out there. I recall applying for college at that time; I recall a sense of optimism, a muted, buzzing sense of expectation, pregnant with hope and possibilities. The world seemed just within reach - grasp at it with sufficient vigor, and you could get everything you might want. I was 19 then; how time flies by. 

I remember reading The White Album, and by extension, this passage - "we tell ourselves stories in order to live". It stuck with me for a time - and I came to be reminded of it recently. 

It seems trite, somehow; self-evident - of course we tell ourselves stories to make sense of the world; it's how we interpret so many discrete, individually meaningless data points to form something other than noise, something that makes sense to us. But more than that: stories aren't just retrospective, they're how we see the future, and how we tell ourselves that we're on a path somewhere, and everything we've done so far, every ounce of sweat and blood was not in vain, but in service of a greater goal, or a destiny that lies in wait, if only we persist. 

In other words, stories help us understand the past, and remain hopeful of the future.

More than that, we want to believe the stories and the movies, because they tell us that one grand gesture can save us from doom; can win over the girl; can win the war. That everything eventually boils down to a quick, clean, titanic struggle of good versus bad, and good overcomes all. We need stories because it masks over the monotony and pointlessness of the day-to-day, the painful, everyday humdrum that is showing up, and doing the right thing, over and over; and reduces it to one moment of moral clarity and personal strength. 

Stories grant us a sense of clarity, and provide color to an otherwise tedious world.

But here's the problem: stories are misleading. What happens when the facts contradict the story we've been telling ourselves? What happens when the hopes we once held close to our hearts, that everything is building towards a greater destiny, falls apart, unattainable, and beyond reach? What happens when the grand gesture fails to win the girl? We are then pushed against ourselves; either we cling on to our stories, our inner romantics, and refuse to fact the facts; or we are forced to tear ourselves away from our beloved, our crutch that made the world comprehensible and full of hope. 

If the infinite, infinitesimal things that happened to us didn't happen for a reason, then what is the point of it all? Why did we live through all of that? With our narratives ripped away, then, we find ourselves struggling with nihilism and hopelessness.

We want to believe the stories - we do! In the corner of my heart, I'm a romantic, still. I want to believe in true love, or our exceptionalism, or more grandiosely, our destiny. We want to believe that our lives have meaning; that we're not all just playthings of an uncaring god. 

We must resist that temptation, however. Stories, at their heart, are a heuristic, a vacuous simplification we tell ourselves that, more often than not, fall apart, hollow, and dessicated. They are at best, palliative, a soothing balm on necrotic flesh. We do ourselves no favour by embracing the morphine and the poppy flower.

What is the alternative then? How do we grapple with the idea that we are, in fact, so very small, and that life works in so many mysterious ways beyond our ability to fathom?

I find that the answer lies in being process oriented  - we may not be able to understand individual events, or control outcomes, but we can strive for excellence in our domains of control. In coming to terms with the randomness, with our powerlessness, we must accept it with a sort of empowered surrender - we ought not to build our dreams around hopes of achievement, nor seek to make sense of our journey thus far, for these things are beyond our control. We should seek excellence only in process, in doing our best.

There's another quote that I really like: 

'Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.'

I think Macbeth was on to something - nihilism rings true to me, but the answer is not to wring our hands in fear or apprehension. I submit that we should embrace process, as the only things we can control in an uncaring world.

The Battle of Ascalon

Disclaimer: The facts and persons depicted in this story, apart from the protagonist, are historically accurate, but I have taken some liberty with the details in creating this fictional account. 

Shouts of alarm rippled across the valley; a flurry of sharp cries of warning and trepidation. He cocked his head, listening intently - there it was, a soft drumming, right at the edge of hearing. It was unnerving - the sound grew to a crescendo, but the source remained out of sight. He eased his sword in and out of his scabbard, a frivolous exercise, but one that made him feel better, nevertheless.

It was the anticipation; the knowledge that something big was about go down; the hope that tonight might bring the protracted campaign to an end; most of all, it was the fear that he wouldn't live to see the sunset tonight. Fear, that he would never see her again.

Around him, a similar restlessness was reflected in the men around him. As the battle drew closer, a groundswell of mumbling could be heard, boots dragging in the sand as men shifted and fidgeted, and a general air of trepidation was noticeable  in the thick muggy air.

It was as though even the weather was against them - the air was warm and sticky, with not a breeze to be found. Hours ago, the clouds had scattered, leaving the sun to beat mercilessly down upon them. Any sensible person would have left the valley to seek shelter, avoiding the baking midday sun.

But they had to hold their position. It was critical, imperative even, that they held the line. This allowed the trickle of trade from the Byzantine Empire to reach Jerusalem - just enough to survive, and nothing more.

And so they sweated, standing in full armor at the mercy of the sun. Swearing, they all wished for this damned waiting to be over, but at the same time, were terrified of what would happen next. With the physical discomfort and dissonant thoughts, tempers were short, and frayed by the barely suppressed terror. No less than 5 fights had broken out, brief scuffles that, while short lived, were telling of the morale and cohesiveness of the army. Or lack thereof.

In his private moments, he had lamented about this ad nauseam, so much so that he was sick and tired of complaining about it. This was hardly a professional army, for gods sake. It was a Crusade, and the army was little more than a loose coalition of soldiers following a diverse group of nobles, each with different and often contradictory objectives. There was Count Raymond of Toulouse, friend of the pope, a well mannered and educated prince - rich beyond measure, he was the one bankrolling the campaignp. Alongside him was Bohemond, Prince of Taranto, a striking figure to behold. Handsome, eloquent, and a fearsome warrior, Bohemond was highly respected by the troops. While they directed the campaign together, both were, in fact, jockeying for leadership of the crusade, and more importantly, ownership over the lands conquered in the Levant. To make matters worse, the other princes, Tancred, Godfrey, and Baldwin, were no shriking violets either - they too wanted to command the coalition, and all of them would claim ownership of the lands.

A bugle played in the distance; a harsh, discordant, and unnerving sound that reverberated through the valley. The general call to arms, the signal that the enemy, and by extension, the battle was nearing. The enemy, led by Al-Afdal Shashanshah, vizier of the Fatimid Caliph, was at least twice as large as their own, and the Franks knew it. But they had to hold their ground, for it was essential to the survival of Jerusalem; no matter how unlikely victory was, they had to fight to the bitter end. 

They had all known this day would come, where the two armies would meet in open battle, the result of which would seal their fates.  And they had prepared for it. The night had been one of prayer, of tears, and of farewells. He remembered it clearly, down to the last detail - how he had held her in his arms; how her soft, cherry red lips felt as they brushed lovingly across his cheek; and how her small smooth hands felt in his, as she had wished him good luck and prayed for his return. Just as clearly, he remembered how they had danced skittishly around the elephant in the room - that he may never return again. 

This brought back memories, memories of the time they had spent together - the romance, the courtship, and finally their marriage, just before the beginning of the campaign. They had lain down on the grass outside their hut, gazing in amicable silence at the stars, cuddling to stay warm; they had held hands as they walked through the market,  pointing hither and thither, giggling at the idiosyncrasies of the merchants; and they had kissed in the dead of night, a warm passionate kiss, a private moment under the watchful gaze of the full moon. Love, a privilege of the lower class, had blossomed between them. 

He clenched his fist, and tightened his grip on the hilt of his blade. Not here; not now. He had to focus on the battle to come; on repelling the Fatimids from the Holy Land; on surviving.

The drumming grew nearer - hoofbeats, the clopping of thousands of hooves on the rocky ground. It sounded like rolling thunder, but drawn out, endless. They passed a bend in the valley, and now the enemy were in sight. There must be thousands of them! Arrayed across the battlefield, line after line of mounted men, dressed in gleaming armor and sitting astride huge battlehorses. A bugle sounded, and the advance stopped. 

For a few short minutes, the two opposing armies stood face to face, staring daggers across the battlefield, each sizing up the other. Then, another discordant blast scythed across the valley, and the battle begun.

He closed his eyes, and prayed in silence. The relics of the Holy Lance and True Cross held by the patriarch would protect them. It had to.

When he opened his eyes again, the enemy were almost upon them - he could see the fierce dark eyes staring out from under the visors. 

Thundering forwards, they swept into the Franks, a wave of death, and destruction.

Sunset

Cars wound along the streets, as people left work, to a relaxing dinner with their spouses, or to have fun with their friends. But not John. He swerved in and out of traffic, honking every few seconds, and getting honked twice as many times.  Speed cameras took down his car plate number, and took his picture, as he sped along the roads. John knew he was speeding. But he was past the point of caring. Driving furiously, he stomped on the pedals, yearning for the car to go faster, as his wife screamed in pain in the backseat. He knew he had to get to the hospital. His wife, sprawled in the backseat, her pretty face contorted in waves of agony, was in labour. He had to get to the hostpital, and soon! Pressing down brutally on the gas, he willed, with every ounce of his will power, that the car go faster, that the needle on the speedometer would inch higher.

As he shot along the highway, his wife moaned in pain, a long low dreadful groan that tugged at his heart, that hurt his very soul. It was as though he was sharing the pain with her, a deep, emotional agony that ate away at his mind, while the same insidious pain ate away at her body. A pain that he could do nothing about, that he could not ease. 

He drove, espousing words of comfort, and telling her everything would be all right, if she would just hold on. Just cling on for a little while longer, they would be there soon. Soon, everything will be all right. He asked her to be strong, for him, for their unborn child. He wanted her to respond, to tell him she could hold it together, that she would be fine. He needed to be comforted just as much as she did. But all he got in return was one more deep agonizing groan, the ripped away at his heart. She was past the point of words, past the point of lucidity. She was slipping away, her groans growing softer, as her desperate hold on life slipped from her control. 

With the finesse of a race car driver, he shot into the emergency bay, just as his wife let out one more pained scream of sheer, unadulterated agony. And she was silent. Unmoving. Curled up on the back seat, she lay wrapped around her precious baby, that was slowly, from within her, killing her. Her bright blue dress was stained red, and the she lay in a puddle, a mixture of urine, blood, perspiration, and who knew what else. Pale and drained 

The professionals took over. Armed with a stretcher, they hauled her limp body out from the back seat of the car, and wheeled it into the ER. Doors slammed, and the operation light flashed red. John was left in the waiting room to sit out a long wait, knowing that his wife was in there, straddling the boundaries of life and death, while he sat in enforced downtime, twiddling his thumbs,

He was starving, and thirsty, caked in sweat, and shaking from trauma, and exhaustion. But he dared not rest, dared not leave the waiting room, dared not even buy a drink from the vending machines in the cafeteria. The operating light had been on for some time now, and the doctor could come out at any time. Any time now, his wife fate could be known to him. He dared not leave the room.

And so he paced, back and forth. Wound up so tight that he could neither sit down, nor think straight. He desperately wanted to know if she was all right, if she would be fine. He wanted the doctor to hurry up and come out, and tell him what happened to his wife.

As he sat in great trepidation the light blinked off. And the double doors swung open, and slowly, the doctor walked out. John leapt out of his chair, and sprinted towards the exhausted doctor. The doctor spoke. Just two words. Two words that would from then on, change the course of his life.

"I'm sorry"

On love

She left, leaving behind her just the barest hint of jasmine; a faint reminder of what had been, and could never be again. The door closed, leaving him alone with only melancholy for company. And pain. Pain, that had insidiously grown within him like a malignant tumour, growing as she left; a dull, omnipresent throbbing agony that was by now the familiar backdrop to everyday life. Just like that, she vanished from his life, remaining in nothing but his bittersweet recollections, and increasingly sour and pained thoughts.

It had been a while now, months, steeped in pain and acrimony, in seclusion, as well as vitriol. He sat, unmoving, looking out the window, upon the playground; listening, as peals of laughter rose from below. Kids. Children, who were running about the playground, shouting, screaming and squealing in hilarity and ecstasy. Damned flies. Annoying little pricks buzzing in concentric circles about his head, taunting him, making an infernal racket he could not quash. Idiots, who whispered about him, about the weirdo on the 5^th floor who was rude, and creepy. Fools, who mocked him for his pain, and smirked at his misfortune. How he hated them. How he hated these pricks, these idiots, these fools! And most of all, how he hated her, the woman that had turned him into this wreck, into this doppelganger of his previous self, and made him live this shadow of a life. It was all her fault. She had to pay for this. She would pay.

He got up from his perch. With long meaningful strides, he walked to the counter, picked up the knife and slipped it into his pocket. He knew where she would be on this Thursday afternoon. He knew what she would be doing and when she would come into the open. He knew exactly when, and where to get her.

The table tennis club building loomed before him. It was here, that he had first met her; that he had first held her hand, and taught her how to play the sport. It was here, that she had finally beaten him; that she had walked out on him, for the first and last time.

She emerged at 4pm, exactly when he expected her to. A turn into a small alley around the corner provided him with ample opportunity; he struck. At knife point, he forced her to do what she had once so willingly done for him, to satiate his need, his craving, and his lust for her.

As he savoured his revenge, she slapped him, and struggled to her feet. He could not let her get away; he could not let her call the police!

He lashed out.

She crumpled.

The cops came some minutes later, dragging away a bare and unresisting figure, kneeling in a pool of blood. At the mouth of the alley, a faint breeze brought a hint of jasmine, a reminder of what was, and never again could be.

He closed his eyes, and whispered “I love you”.

The man in the mirror

Some say the moon is a watchful eye, benevolently enveloping all in it protective gaze. It was full that night, a beautiful monolithic sphere in the sky, peering owlishly down upon the world below. If it were true, though, Winston could not feel it. He felt neither the comfort in the omniscience of the "eye", nor the beauty of the full moon. Winston sighed, a soft exhalation of resignation, fatigue, and exhaustion. He had been doing that more and more frequently of the late, though always careful to make sure that it was audible to none but himself. If he were honest with himself, he would have to admit that even if anyone heard it, and perceived his frustration, his angst, and his alienation from the world, nobody would care.

The bells chimed, twelve times; a sharp discordant screech that scythed through the peaceful night sky,slicing across Winston's thoughts, interrupting his reverie. It was midnight, the hour of romance and serenity. As though on cue, a soft periodic squeaking begun - the squeaking of the bedsprings above. He swore, colourfully, with unmitigated vehemence and disgust. It was nearly a nightly ritual; the chimes of the bells would foreshadow 10 minutes of squeaking, thumping and moaning. It was a though the pair of idiots upstairs were trying to kill each other every night.

Angrily, he kicked a chair, sending its skittering across the room. Fine, they had found their better halves, and were enjoying each other's company, but did have to advertise it so ostentatiously, and on such a regular basis? He looked up, as though he could stop the moans emanating above just by glaring at the ceiling. It was at this juncture, that he could swear that he could see the pair of them stare back down at him, smirking, taunting him, laughing as he griped in his lonesome bachelors apartment, while they languished in the company of each other. How he hated them , the snide lowlifes that consistently reminded him of how alone he was, of how estranged he was from the world. And of how he was sick, lonely and unloved, an inferior good tossed out onto the streets to rot, undesirable to even the tramps.

Snarling, he hauled himself up onto the the ledge of his window. It was here, on the ledge of his window, that he often dwelled, for it was the place where he had the greatest peace of mind. It was here, that he felt truly free, away from the bustling office, filled with the charismatic friendly men, and sweet smiling women, all of them ready to drive a knife between his shoulder blades, if it would help them on their way. It was here, that he could get away from the moulding smell of his dingy 1 room flat; the piles of laundry scattered on the floor, festering; and the piles of unpaid bills lying haphazardly on his desk. It was here, that he could find within him a semblance of serenity, and calmness.

A gleam of his wrist attracted his attention. He looked down. A bright light from behind him had reflected off the surface of his watch, directly into his eye. He turning his wrist downward, sighing again. This watch was a family heirloom - fifty years ago, his grandfather had bought this watch, a Patek Phillippe, that had cost around the range of fifty thousand dollars, and it had been passed down to him, reminiscent of the times where his family was rich, and could afford such splurge on such things as expansive watches. But it would not be a family heirloom much longer. At the rate he was going, he would need to sell the watch soon, or at least use it as a collateral for bank loans. Even if he were to keep it, he didn't even have a wife, much less a child to which he could leave the watch. Yes, he decided, it would have to go, and soon, if he wanted to keep a roof over his head.

He toddled over to the table, picking up a can of beer, before hauling himself back onto the ledge, and taking a gratifyingly long slurp. It was warm, of course. He didn't have the money for a fridge, much less for the electricity it would cost him. But no matter, it was after all, still beer, and that was a luxury as far as he was concerned. He sat there, for the best part of an hour, drinking his beer, and feeling the closest to content he had been for a long time. The alcohol dulled his brain, dulled the thoughts mulling about his mind, and the pain in his heart. He sipped, appreciatively, enjoying his only respite from the brutality of reality. Content, he drooped into something resembling a stupor.
#
He had dreams once. Back before his nose pressed against the grindstone, and life was a daily struggle simply to survive, he had ideals and dreams. He once dreamed of social equality, where he could use his skilled to help the poor survive, to use his legal knowledge to be a public defender, taking on cases where the clients were to poor to pay. He once dreamed of beginning an upsurge of sympathy for the poor, where people would help and protect them in any way they could. He had dreamed of changing the world. It was to that end that he had taken up law, and joined the Office of the Public Defender, and started on his legal career.
#
It had been about 5 years into his legal career, and he had become some kind of local celebrity, in his zealous defence of the poor, and interesting, if slightly melodramatic courtroom theatrics. He had been coming closer to becoming a star, a shining beacon of light, that would benevolently offer a hand to those in need. He had felt as though he was among the stars in the night sky, watchful, and protective, ready to protect the maligned. But then, he had gotten careless.
In his zeal, he had made several inflammatory statements against the government, and several key political figures, blaming them for the growing rich poor disparity, and the plight of the poor. He had inadvertently made several statements that he could not prove were true. It was then that it all start. When the first lawsuit was delivered to his office, he could have wept, and might have started hurling things. Instead, he simply turned around, and plotted his response. His staff were looking on. Leaders do not show their feelings.
#
Since then, he had been sued for slander, for defamation, and a host of other charges. In addition, the bar revoked his license to practice and he had to go through the indignity of hiring a lawyer for himself. He was close to broke, and effectively unemployable, at least in the legal field. He was forced, eventually to become a clerk, working for minimal wage at a large multi-national. Quite a fall from grace.
Fortunately, his girlfriend stayed on with him, in the little house he had called home. But it wasn't long before even the house had to go - he simply couldn't pay the morgages. His girlfriend moved out, never to return. He would have wept when she told him. But he simply apologised, and said goodbye. Men do not show their feelings.
#
A drop of water hit his face, breaking his reverie. It had started to rain. Slowly at first, the small droplets of water that heralded a storm fell from the sky, as though holes had appeared in the clouds that had once kept all the rain in. Then it got bigger, the clouds deperately holding on to their innards, as the rain broke free, vehement in their struggle to escape. And just as quickly, it all came to an end, the final drops hitting the earth, and the clouds were no more. He sometimes wondered, if he could do the same, leap from he window and plummet to the earth, finally free, and emancipated. His emaciated frame would lie broken on the ground, a bag a shattered bones that had once be animated by life, finally unrestrained and free, in death.
Who would mourn him? An unknown face of yet another man who committed suicide, another tragic but ultimately meaningless death, just part of the statistics. No one would be concerned, let alone sad if he chose to end it. So what was holding him back?
It was then, that he made up his mind. The fingers that had held on so tightly, slackened, and the earth rose up, to accept him as its own. As the lit windows flew past him were reflected of his watch, as he spun and rotated in mid air. If your were looking out of the window, Winston could just be a shooting star, a glowing remnant of a comet that had once orbited the Sun.
#
John Smith had been walking down the street, thinking about his pending divorce, when a loud thump interrupted his thoughts. He hurried over to the source of the sound, and saw a dead body, lying spread eagled on the floor, like a marionette with its strings cut loose. A broken form of a man who had once stood erect, and had once been endowed with life. The lifeless body lay still, the faintest trace of emotions visible on his countenance. It was a ghost of a smile, finally shown in death.
PS:
John sighed. Another suicide, the 5th this month. Sometimes, he wondered if it was worth it, to be able to escape, for once and for all. Perhaps, just perhaps, he might one day, be the one found lying on the cold hard ground, finally free, to fly,  unrestrained, into the heavens. But he was not one to give up. The watch lying on the dead man's wrist bore a host of possibilities for John - $50 000 could go a long way for a desperate man. Stooping, he picked up the watch, and sidled down the street, leaving the body on the cold hard ground. As his shadow disappeared from sight, the rats begun to appear. It was dinner time.

Pure fiction

Fire overtook my heart, and ice my mind. A thin fog veiled my sight, covering my world with a sweet pink tint. Limbs turned to jelly, mind slowed to a crawl, and my person reduced to a blubbering wreck, I ogled the ridiculously beautiful lady that stood before me. She smiled, an incandescent smile that instantly illuminated my world, and in a sweet chordal voice introduced herself.

Was it Tiffany, or was it Tiffy? I wasn't sure, overwhelmed as I was with her presence. I desperately wanted to say something intelligent,something witty, funny that would make her laugh her melodious tinkling laugh; make her smile that beautiful brilliant smile; and make her like me. 

I opened my mouth, as a dozen disjointed thoughts surged through my mind. Should I throw out a witty pickup line, like "Do you belief in love at first sight, or should I come back later?", or should I try something more suggestive, like "Is your family into baking, cuz you have nice buns". Would that be cute, funny, or just puerile cheesy? What would be funny, nice and likeable to her? I started out with the witty pick up line:

"Urgh murgh miahgle...." My tongue curled around itself, as the sweet pink fog tied up my throat, and froze my thoughts. I tried to smile, and gloss over the social faux pas, but I probably looked more like a strangled toad, especially with the gurgling I was making. 

She giggled, a cute innocent tinkle, that melted my heart, and slackened my jaw. My eyes became dreamy, vacant, much like a sluggish torpor induced by narcotics. Beguiled by the smile, my regular demeanour crumbled, leaving me an exposed, stammering wreck. She reached out, and poked me in my rather ample midriff, that bewitching smile never leaving her countenance for one moment.

Tongue-tied, I flushed a deep crimson, as my heart rate accelerated. Giddy with infatuation, my breathing became shallow and rapid. Mentally, I kicked myself, as I struggled to pull myself together to give some form of a response; I wanted to... I needed to...ermmmm... I didn't even know! A thick white fog had obscured my mind, clouding up, and crowding out my other thoughts. 

Indecision washed over me, as desire and hesitance embroiled in a fight for dominance. The former
eventually overcame the latter, and palms slick with sweat, I endeavoured to speak once more. "I..gahmm..."

"Aren't you so cute!" She quipped, smiling her breathtakingly beautiful smile. Oh how I wanted to reach forth, to kiss her, to release the sexual tension within me. Her allure, in her flawless beauty, her quirky, loveable mannerisms, and her exitable demeanor proved impossible to resist. I couldn't afford to bungle this! I desperately wanted her to feel about me the same way I did about her, to meld together to form the most perfect puzzle, to explore the wildest adventures with her by my side. I just couldn't screw this up!

But I did. As I watched her stalk away, creeped out, I sighed inwardly. What a spectacular failure that was. I sat down, watching her exquisite frame disappear into the crowd, as once more, loneliness engulfed me. Biting into the enticing fruit of love, I realised, belatedly, that it was sour.

Flames

My friend, again you return,?
To a land that you vowed to leave forever?
Perhaps this time, to bring an end
To the tragic story that was penned.

He strode ahead, through the thick underbrush of dumbapple trees, and Banora White shrubs, onto a cliff overlooking the old town. The wind moaned a mournful, high pitched howl, and behind him, the rustling and creaking of the trees could be heard. Faintly, very faintly. Soft, but yet, ever-present; unavoidable; inevitable. It lay just within his hearing, scything through his mind, agonizing, its source unidentifiable. Perturbed, he sat, and looked down.

Along with the wind came a sight he had attempted to evade for many years now. A quaint old village, small and petite, with small wisps of smoke wafting above it. One of the last of its kind, it stood, defiantly, in the small clearing before him. It had been awhile, but it looked the same, unchanged, unaffected by the passing of time. He stood, abruptly. It may be unchanged, but he was no longer the same person he used to be. Fire filled his mind, and ice gathered in his heart.

No. He was most definitely not the same.

Two long years had past since he last stepped into the village. Two long years since he left this place, left the indignities it had thrown at him, and sworn never to return. Two long years, he had bided his time, waited, ever so patiently. But no more. It was time. It was most definitely time.

He tread his way along the path, looking ahead, seeing the village, silent, and ever so foreboding,  grow larger before him. He looked about him, at the dumbapple trees overlooking the path, and the ravens perched upon the branches. As he walked, the ravens looked on, beady yellow eyes trained upon his every move. A raven crowed, a tragic cry morphing rapidly into the moan of the wind.

He shivered. How he hated these thing. Waving his hand, he yelled "Begone!" Insolent things. How he wanted to kill then, to burn the flock, one by one. He shrugged mentally. Not now, he had more important things on his agenda. This affront can wait.

Striding through the village, he glared at the gawking villages. Ruddy bumkins. So what if he decided to return? What was it to them? He knew they were staring, so he glared right back. He swept past one of the old oil deposits only used by villages such as these. One of those stupid old fashioned things part of this old fashioned village. Downright stupid. pointless, idiotic waste of space. Not to mention fire hazard.

He stopped, at the door of the house directly beside the oil deposit, turning to face the old woman that had just come out of the house. While stooped, and aged, she still kept herself immaculately groomed, clutching at the last vestiges of pride and dignity. Peering up at his face, she spoke, quietly, "So, you are back, aren't you?"

"Indeed I am, and for good reason."

She turned to the onlooking crowd, "Its just a visit, from my... son. I'll be fine", turning to him, she continued " Let's talk inside". He laughed, without mirth. "As you say.... mother" he spat. She walked through the doorway, and the door shut, with a muffled, fatalistic, thump.

To a distant observer, there would be no way to see what was happening within. The dark damp cottage had little in the way of windows, the few of those were covered with dark cretonne drapes. If one paid close enough attention, one might have heard the soft murmur of conversation, tense, and hushed.

The atmosphere in the cottage was static, each comment passed brought out a spark of anger and resentment. It wasnt long before the conversation grew louder, more intense, and the him yelling in fury and frustration, and her following with a terse and short retaliation. The door flew open, and he came stomping out, shouting.

"Its all your fault, that I'm like that!  If you had been more careful, more caring, and less of a conceited egocentric nut, all would be well!"

A soft reply, conciliatory.

"I don't need your concern! Its too late! Its 20 years too late!" She stretched out her hand, reaching out to him, but he slapped it away. "Go away! I don't need your false sympathy, or your hypocrisy!" He slammed the door shut, in her face.

She sank back down onto the chair, placing her head between her hands, warm tears streaming down her face. She wanted to scream, to shout, just like him, to lose control of herself like he was doing. But she couldn't. She had her dignity, and her honour. Her frame shook as she wavered, on the brink of an emotional breakdown, the sheer force of her will holding her back. She couldn't lose control of herself. Not even now. But did he think she wanted to? Did he think she had a choice? She didn't, not then, not now. Did he think her unaffected, and not hurt by the happenings of the past. She was! Even more so than he. Guilt rushed up to her heart, trammelling and stoppering up the access of other emotions. Her head clouded, and her frame wilted.

She reached over wrapping her hands around the knife on the utensils rack. Slowly, gradually, she placed the knife on her wrist, and sliced. The blood rushed out of the severed artery, warm, emotional, and unburdened, it poured out onto the table. Free and unrestrained by the confines of her frame, her blood splashed across the surface, and dripped down the sides of the table, onto the floor. Gillian closed her eyes, as life left her, and the last thought that inched, sluggishly, across her rapidly fading mind was: I'm sorry, Angeal.

In a frenzy of rage and anger, he sprinted back up the path, back to the cliff that overlooked the village. Hand trembling with frustrating, he took out the detonator from his pocket, and detonated the package lying in the oil deposit. The explosion ignited a large portion of the village, and the hungry flame licked at the remainder, devouring all that was in sight.

Screams and shouts came from the houses, as the villagers scrambled to extinguish the fire, but to no avail. The ravens took off, squawking in surprise and indignation, a dark flock obscuring the sun.

The ravens faded into the distance, a dark spot slowly growing smaller and smaller. They were unscathed, with the exception of two ravens. Smoking, and wings charred, the two ravens plummetted from the sky, flapping its wings rapidly, but without avil. Slowly, they tumbled from the sky, crashing on the floor, dead.

He watched the ravens fall from the sky , but felt no joy. Sweeping his long hair aside, he placed his palm on his scarred face. On the twenty year old burn scar tissues that covered more than half his countenance. The features that got him branded a freaker, delinquant and criminal. The features created by his mother, by leaving his cot beside the flames. He closed his eyes. Retribution. At last. How long he had waited for that moment.

Slowly, he turned around, his back facing the flames that engulfed the village behind him. Eyes shut, Angeal leapt, gracefully, off the cliff, into the flames. A silent spark, finally extinguished.

The flames began to die down, as the fuel slowly ran out. All but one of the dumbapples had been burnt, and the final one hung, smoking, on a charred branch, as flames slowly consumed it from within. Burnt out, hollowed, and drained of all moisture, the dumbapple slowly fell to the floor. Upon impact, the dumbapple disintegrated, joining the ashes on the floor.

With a final majestic groan, the dumbapple tree followed suit. Burnt, and weary of fighting, the tree collapsed, disintegrating, and joining the dumbapples ashes on the burnt clearing floor.

The fire burnt itself out, eventually. The proud quaint village, was no more, burnt into nothing but wifts of smoke rising into the sky, joining the clouds above, finally free.

At last, free.

Slowly, it begun to rain.

Ash to ashes, and dust to dust. What begun in flames ended in flames. Angeal was finally home, and at last, he, was free.

My friend, do you fly away now?
To a world that abhors you and I?
All that awaits you is a somber morrow
No matter where the winds may blow