Friday, March 13, 2009

Free
He loosened his hands from the bruised throat, and took a back to look at the thing he had done.

It was not a pretty sight. Though he had to owe it to himself that there was something attractive about the face. He found himself wondering what it was. Not the mouth, certainly, with its loathsome droop of passive suffering, that was still there, even though the lips were parted in one last automatic effort to sob in breath to the bursting lungs. Nor could it be the eyes, wide open and smudged with grimy marks of tears. The nose was snub and the chin was weak...

'Ah! That is it!' he said to himself at last. 'It is not the picture... it is the frame. The hair, the way it clings to the face, the way it is playing around the neck. 'Oh, the neck!'

He looked thoughtfully at the dull blue and black marks along the neck. 'I have strong fingers' he said softly, looking at his fingers and saw that they remained unstained. 'And I didn't let go, either. Yes, I have strong hands'
He felt a little proud of his work. In his life he had missed the triumph of making things, but now, he had the strong joy of having broken something.

'I have crushed you, m'dear,' he said amiably to the body. 'You will not torture me with your wet eyes and sad mouth ever more. You will not smile weakly when I curse at you, you will not sob softly to yourself when I hit you, you're dead!'

And pleased with his conceit he dealt a blow to the face of the corpse with his fist. It was cold to the touch, but the chest didn't heave, the eyes didn't soften and glisten over and drop tears around the cheeks. He was satisfied.

'Dead' he sad. 'Dead, m'dear.' And as he turned his back contemptuously on the corpse and went across the room to the window.

It was a lovely spring morning with a cloudless sky of blue, and a glorious sun was climbing its way up. Among the trees in the square the birds were singing joyfully, he could see the white pinafores of children playing on the grass in the gardens. Something of the joy of spring seized the man, bringing with it a mingled feeling of hope and regret.
'Damn!' he cried. 'the years I have wasted- utterly wasted. Well, I'm free now.. Free!' He laughed lightly and happily.

What it meant! No longer bound to a weakling, but now a strong free man. Free to laugh, free to enjoy the spring, free to marry, if he wanted to. But he would not do that. He would- what's the word?- philander, that's it. Flower to flower, like a butterfly. His spirit was free, and it was the time of spring.

He looked cheerfully at the body.
'The first thing I'll do is clear away this... this mess' he said, and strode back to the bedside.

Yes, it was the hair. There was no doubt about it. It would have been awkward if it had been the mouth or eyes. The thought made him shudder. But that was all nonsense. It was the hair, most certainly. The way it clung to the face.

And yet....


It was a fine spring morning. And he was free, free to do what he wanted, the whole world through. The best thing to do would be to get away and leave it all. The rooms were taken by the cadaver's name. Everything was in it's name. That was lucky. Of course, there would be a fuss when it was found, but he would be far away by that time. 'Over the hills and far away' He laughed aloud. Far from those eyes and mouth and everything. Oh, but he had already forgotten those, anyhow, and the whole matter was dead. They would trouble him no more, for it was merely the hair that had caught his attention. And now he was free.

He opened his bag on the floor by the bed, and began putting his things in neatly. His packing was one of the little things that he was proud of, and as he bustled about the room he sang a song, a nursery rhyme, that the had given back to his memory. Oh, he would be young again. It was the spring, and a very happy day.

Presently he remembered his pajamas which were on the pillow under the corpse's head. He lifted it not unkindly and dropped the head hastily and took refuge in his packing. There was room for his brown shoes here. Oh, there was a collar on the floor in the corner and his sponge. It would not do to forget them. He cast a glance around the room to make sure that he hadn't missed anything, But all of his things seemed to be safely packed away. His glance finally fell back in the corpse.

'poor thing!' he say with contemptuous pity. 'So dead and it is springtime. Can't even hear it,' and he paused to listen to the birds, and the children singing together out in the square. He found himself saying absently:
'I wonder whether the dead people always have such wet eyes,' and he flung himself viciously on his knees, and fastened his bag.

He got up from the ground with his spirits a little dashed, and put of his coat, looking angrily at the body.

'If you haunt me...' he cried, shaking his fist at it.
But in a minute he knew this was folly, because it was the hair, and he had forgotten.
So he lit a cigarette and picking up his bag and hat, he stepped firmly to the door.
'Good-bye m'dear! he said scornfully over his shoulder with his hand on the handle of the door.

'Good-bye~ My-dear'

And a minute later he walked out of the house, as one who is free does.

Certainly... He had forgotten.


~No real reason for the story. I just got a fancy to write it. Took me an hour to write, ten minutes to check over. I like the story, even though it has no meaning to it.

I wonder why I've only gotten books so far. not that I don't appreciate them or anything, but really... The books could at least be of a variety... lol. I let someone borrow a book. Apparently he says I gave it to him. whatever. School is too crowded, people talk too much during study hall. I wonder if I can get a job? Probably not.

My stomach hurts so much. I took Advil, but it's not helping. Nobody's here right now, it's not that bad anyhow, I'll just lay down and hope it goes away with some time. Maybe it's from that piece of chocolate I ate
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