Original Story: Next Time- Part 1.
00:10
I can hear them coming as their voices swing from tree to
tree, their presence vibrating through the branches of my palace walls,
disturbing the crisp, clean silence of my secret hideaway. Upon my sylvan throne, I look out into the
empty road, a forgotten pathway crowned by silver rocks and moon-kissed stone, made
sacred by its neglect. After three years away, not much has remained the same
in my ‘little’ town. The place I had
been born had grown up in my absence and all around me now stood a town ‘renewed’ by the menace of man, ‘refreshed’ by the lies of the new and
mechanised. Fields became factories as
once open spaces gave birth to businesses and buzz rendering every memory of
this space in a time I knew now irrelevant. Only this abandoned road seemed unable to
remove the trace of my childhood. Unable to be cleansed of a past I had known
and lived, in a land forcing me to forget. Beside this road, where I now sit,
stands a fortress of green and dark blues; a castle of dead trees and vines,
fallen spirits and broken dreams frozen in time. A space both asleep and awake,
void of the torments of industrialized hands. In the midst of this untouched
jungle, this untamed bush, I am cradled
in the arms of my protectors, safe behind the barriers of the familiar ‘prick’
of rough branches, reminding me they’re always there. Here, I can be safe. I
can be alone. But not tonight.
Tonight I can hear them coming as their voices swing from
tree to tree, their presence vibrating through the branches of my palace walls
as their unknown voices fill this space, my space, with the wretched
uncertainty of the unfamiliar. As they approach the once abandoned road they
cannot see me and I can barely see them, but at least I know they are here. In
the darkness of the September night, mortals morph into shadows, as I can only
see their opaque outline making their way down this once sacred ground. I do
not recognize the voices, maybe I would have three years ago when they were
boys, but now I only the see the shadows of men, only hear the deep bass of
voices laced with strength and life. I try to imagine faces of people I had
known, try to match these mysterious tones with the squeals of neighbourhood youths,
playing football on a Sunday afternoon, running wild in their ignorance. But I
am unsuccessful. Like their bodies I am unable to bring to light the names of
these intruders that now dare trespass on my property, that defile my hidden
treasure.
I reposition myself, ascending slightly, quietly off my throne of
bark and branches; my siege, enthroned by dried leaves and vines with which I
find comfort, to be closer to my uninvited guests. As I lean forward, the shadows become more
defined. Now just slightly before me I can see that the first stranger is tall
and slender, his steps gallant and long while the other is shorter and wider,
his steps mimicking his frame. As they
walk their backs are turned to me, I am unable to see their faces. I want to
ignore these unknown men, to wait silently for their noise to pass but now they
are no longer moving. They have stopped. I begin to wonder why they have chosen
to stop here. Why in a town now designed to satisfy the needs of modern man,
they have decided to escape to a place so undisturbed by the sins of their
fathers? I am curious, so I listen.
“Will you just fucking tell me what happened last night man,”
I hear the taller intruder say, his voice alive with excitement. He wants to
know. I now want to know as well.
“Will you just drop it,” replies the second stranger his tone
more reserved, diffident.
“Will you just cut the shit. You’re going to tell me anyway,
so stop being such a pussy,” I hear the first stranger respond; his voice is
assertive and strong. His companion doesn’t answer; the words sting. Without
seeing his face I know his pride has been wounded. I, though I have no right to, also feel shaken.
There is now a silence, the eerie kind of silence like at an extravagant dinner
party when someone has decided to say something taboo and all those in
attendance can only carry on with their meals as though they hadn’t heard,
leaving only their silver knives to quietly bang against glass plates. It is this kind of silence. Suddenly their
voices no longer tremble through my kingdom, leaving only the gentle wind to
quietly rustle the leaves of listening trees made silver in the moonlight.
In the silence of his errors he notices his wrongs, I see him
move closer to his supposed friend, placing his arm around his companion either
to patronize or pacify, I don’t know which. “I’m just kidding bro, you know I
can be an ass. Just tell me… please?” I hear the tall stranger say to his other
half, his tone sincere and sweet. His
‘please’ springing from his lips like a stream of milk and honey. Even I would
tell him now.
The second intruder agrees, he seems revived, I cannot see
his face but I can feel his smile. “Fine,” he says, pretending to be annoyed. I
can tell he now wants to share. “So” he continues, making a slight pause to
look around for unwanted ears but he does not see me, “she just came over last
night and hung out man.”
“Like I told you she would!”
“
Yes Matt, like you told me she would, “ replies the second
boy dismissively. Matt (as I now know he’s called) however seems undisturbed. He
is excited, his darkened frame jumping up and down.
‘So she came over and we were on my bed, and we just talked
and stuff, so it’s like no big deal man, so can we drop this now?’ says the
unnamed boy. He speaks quickly and softly. His words seem shallow and
empty. But it is clear something
happened, at least to me, though he wishes not to say anymore.
At this point I become too invested. I am too involved; I
begin to paint their faces in my mind with the tone of their voices. I imagine Matt’s
strong jaw and big, bright brown eyes. I can see his pink, full lips and his
perfect, white teeth. But most importantly I can see his smile, his wide
beautiful smile, so unconcerned with insecurity and doubt. The unnamed boy
however is harder to picture, in my mind I see a slur of petite features, small
unremarkable eyes, and thin, dead lips. He is neither handsome nor exciting, not
like Matt, but he fascinates me more. I want to know what happened.
My attention is turned back to my guests. I can see that Matt
wants to know more too. I see him inch closer to his unnamed friend. I can
imagine his large brown eyes in a glare, his strong brow furrowed, as if he is looking
into his friend’s soul.
“You and your constant bull shit bout ’talk’ I know something happened so just tell me!” Matt has a forceful way of speaking. Without
raising his voice his words are firm and authoritative, his presence is
commanding. I don’t see how his unnamed friend can resist.
He can’t.
He is hesitant but he can’t. I feel the space go
quiet but this silence is different. It is more like the calm before the storm.
I see the unnamed stranger lift his head
as if he is about to speak, but I don’t hear any words. I see him walk slowly away from his friend,
close to my hiding spot. I am hidden but concerned. What if he sees me? Holding
my breath I now watch more cautiously in case I need to make my get away. With just a few steps the muscular boy is now
directly in front of me. From his new
angle I can see the natural blond streaks in his thick black hair reflecting
the silver rays of the crescent moon. I
can hear his deep breaths, uneven but rhythmic. I can feel his unspoken shame,
his soul searching for a voice to tell his friend, to tell himself, to
unknowingly tell me but his body demurs.
His strong shoulders shrug, his head gently bobs from side to side as he
runs his large hands through his multi-toned hair. He makes a sort of secret
exclamation which though he is so close to me I am unable to hear. With this he begins to walk back to his friend,
his steps short and wide; his light brown boat shoes ever so slightly kicking
up the silver dirt of my sacred road. But I do not mind. I want to help him. I
want to make him feel safe. I want to grab his hand and pull him into my
fortress. But I can’t. Not right now. He
doesn’t even know that I am here.
He walks over to Matt, his frame bent, defeated. He quietly
mutters “shit.” Matt doesn’t hear but I do.
“It isn’t really a fun story man,” he finally says, his head
facing the ground.
“Come on Michael, I’m not here to judge you bro,” says Matt,
his voice warm and comforting.
Now that I know Michael’s name I feel like I can
truly greet my guests. I have become too
invested. I am too involved.
“So just tell me bitch,”
Matt finishes. His tone is light. Michael chuckles. It is sad but hopeful. I
see Matt playfully punch his friend. It makes me happy though I don’t know why.
If I were Michael I would tell him now....
-WerepupJeremy
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