Requiem for Tomorrow
Hey all new story is written and so as per request I am posting it up. This one is the longest as of yet. This one is a little raw due to the result of the time contraints I had to do it in, and teh fact that halfway through I lossed half of it and had to rewrite it at six in the morning so it hasn't been proofread as much as I would like, but still I love the concepts explored within it
ENJOY
Requiem for Tomorrow
His parents were dead now, but when they were alive the trees grew. When his parents had lived the world had likewise thrived or so it had appeared to Deacon when he was younger. Even now, having studied the technical reasons as to why the world had begun its stagnant decay, the panicked elections and clamoring for charming candidates leading to inept leaders and failed government policies. And even though the problems had started long before he was even born, Deacon still looked at his parent’s death and the death of the trees as undoubtedly linked. Both beings symbols of the unchanging world around him.
Deacons life hadn’t seemed to change either, he still walked the same street home that he had been walking for the last six years. The barren landscape around him was still dotted with the twisted black shrubs that seemed to live as scars upon the scenery. The streetlamp on the corner by his house was still burnt out. And that same faded, blue front door still awaited him as he slowly walked his way up the cracked concrete of the driveway.
On the other side of that door was that same scene which he had witnessed almost six years ago, and had continued to encounter almost daily ever since. At the time he had first seen it; his parents had been dead for close to half a year and Deacon had been living with his older brother. Greg was twenty at the time and the only family Deacon had and as such Greg had been named Deacon’s legal guardian. Greg had been forced to drop out of college with the death of their parents, and the house they had all shared together was sold and the two brothers moved into where they now lived. Even with the money from the house Greg had still struggled to make ends meet as he toiled away at dead end jobs. And the loss of his parents slowly ate away at him, as Deacon would hear him trying to stifle sobs at night. But to his testament he had tried to not let these troubles effect the eleven year old Deacon. And Greg made every effort to try and be at waiting for Deacon when he got out of school so they could walk home together. And Greg had only missed one or two days in the six months they had been living together. And he had never missed a day without Warning Deacon.
The day had been like any other, Deacon had struggled through school, his mind thinking about the withering trees outside while the class chatted to each other about this new drug that had been introduced to pharmacies everywhere. The small black and white pill supposedly had the power to transport you through time to wherever you wanted to be, or at least it did according to the elaboration of classroom gossip.
The bell had rung dismissing classes, and young Deacon had made his way outside to where his brother would usually be waiting for him. Except this time he wasn’t there, Deacon’s heart panicked as it always did on the few occasions his brother missed picking him up. The whirlwind of voices, yells, laughter, and pattering feet of the other children drowned out the beating of his thumping heart. Panic had washed through his thoughts as he could feel a knot swelling in his throat. He had desperately tried to calm himself down and waited beneath the shade of the parking lot overhang brushing off questions as to his well being with a smile of false reassurance. But as the sun began to fade from its lofty perch and the feelings of abandonment and panic gave way to worry and concern, Deacon decided he would have to go home before it was completely night out.
And so Deacon took that first long walk home by himself and stopped in front of the front door just as he did now six years later. Except now then it had been trepidation and worry that had kept his hand at bay, unlike the exhaustion that now did.
That day six years ago Deacon had opened the door and walked into the small two bedroom bungalow he and his brother still lived in. The lights were off, and the room was cloaked in that eerie grey/blue light that envelopes the world just after sunset and right before the twilight. He had closed and locked the door behind him by the time he heard the soft giggles from behind the yellow coach. The hushed laughter seemed distant as they emanated throughout the room, as if the subject of the mirth was some far away occurrence. Deacon had slowly approached the couch, and climbed onto the yellow cushions. The giggling seemed to somehow grow louder even as the sound of Deacon’s blood pumping through his ears drowned out the world around him.
Finally mustering up the courage to look at what was on the other side of the couch, Deacon peeked his head over to see his brother giggling on the floor. His eyes were open and staring back up at Deacon unfocused as if he was looking at something else. His face glistened as a thin layer of sweat had broken out across his body, and his mouth trembled as his laughter bubbled from between his lips.
Deacon quickly hopped over the couch and kneeled by his brother’s side, shaking him and calling out his name, but the laughter just continued as Greg’s eyes continued to look distantly straight forward. But as Deacon continued to shake his brother and call his name, his brother spoke.
“Dad, no stop. You’re tone death, Your tone death, it’s hurting my ears.” At these words Deacon had fallen back from his brother as if he had been possessed by some unseen demon. Deacon fully remembered their father’s bad singing which would normally frequent their car on the family trips the four of them had used to take together, and the way him and his brother used to laugh and beg him to stop. It was also one of the things the brothers had most missed when their parents had died.
ENJOY
Requiem for Tomorrow
His parents were dead now, but when they were alive the trees grew. When his parents had lived the world had likewise thrived or so it had appeared to Deacon when he was younger. Even now, having studied the technical reasons as to why the world had begun its stagnant decay, the panicked elections and clamoring for charming candidates leading to inept leaders and failed government policies. And even though the problems had started long before he was even born, Deacon still looked at his parent’s death and the death of the trees as undoubtedly linked. Both beings symbols of the unchanging world around him.
Deacons life hadn’t seemed to change either, he still walked the same street home that he had been walking for the last six years. The barren landscape around him was still dotted with the twisted black shrubs that seemed to live as scars upon the scenery. The streetlamp on the corner by his house was still burnt out. And that same faded, blue front door still awaited him as he slowly walked his way up the cracked concrete of the driveway.
On the other side of that door was that same scene which he had witnessed almost six years ago, and had continued to encounter almost daily ever since. At the time he had first seen it; his parents had been dead for close to half a year and Deacon had been living with his older brother. Greg was twenty at the time and the only family Deacon had and as such Greg had been named Deacon’s legal guardian. Greg had been forced to drop out of college with the death of their parents, and the house they had all shared together was sold and the two brothers moved into where they now lived. Even with the money from the house Greg had still struggled to make ends meet as he toiled away at dead end jobs. And the loss of his parents slowly ate away at him, as Deacon would hear him trying to stifle sobs at night. But to his testament he had tried to not let these troubles effect the eleven year old Deacon. And Greg made every effort to try and be at waiting for Deacon when he got out of school so they could walk home together. And Greg had only missed one or two days in the six months they had been living together. And he had never missed a day without Warning Deacon.
The day had been like any other, Deacon had struggled through school, his mind thinking about the withering trees outside while the class chatted to each other about this new drug that had been introduced to pharmacies everywhere. The small black and white pill supposedly had the power to transport you through time to wherever you wanted to be, or at least it did according to the elaboration of classroom gossip.
The bell had rung dismissing classes, and young Deacon had made his way outside to where his brother would usually be waiting for him. Except this time he wasn’t there, Deacon’s heart panicked as it always did on the few occasions his brother missed picking him up. The whirlwind of voices, yells, laughter, and pattering feet of the other children drowned out the beating of his thumping heart. Panic had washed through his thoughts as he could feel a knot swelling in his throat. He had desperately tried to calm himself down and waited beneath the shade of the parking lot overhang brushing off questions as to his well being with a smile of false reassurance. But as the sun began to fade from its lofty perch and the feelings of abandonment and panic gave way to worry and concern, Deacon decided he would have to go home before it was completely night out.
And so Deacon took that first long walk home by himself and stopped in front of the front door just as he did now six years later. Except now then it had been trepidation and worry that had kept his hand at bay, unlike the exhaustion that now did.
That day six years ago Deacon had opened the door and walked into the small two bedroom bungalow he and his brother still lived in. The lights were off, and the room was cloaked in that eerie grey/blue light that envelopes the world just after sunset and right before the twilight. He had closed and locked the door behind him by the time he heard the soft giggles from behind the yellow coach. The hushed laughter seemed distant as they emanated throughout the room, as if the subject of the mirth was some far away occurrence. Deacon had slowly approached the couch, and climbed onto the yellow cushions. The giggling seemed to somehow grow louder even as the sound of Deacon’s blood pumping through his ears drowned out the world around him.
Finally mustering up the courage to look at what was on the other side of the couch, Deacon peeked his head over to see his brother giggling on the floor. His eyes were open and staring back up at Deacon unfocused as if he was looking at something else. His face glistened as a thin layer of sweat had broken out across his body, and his mouth trembled as his laughter bubbled from between his lips.
Deacon quickly hopped over the couch and kneeled by his brother’s side, shaking him and calling out his name, but the laughter just continued as Greg’s eyes continued to look distantly straight forward. But as Deacon continued to shake his brother and call his name, his brother spoke.
“Dad, no stop. You’re tone death, Your tone death, it’s hurting my ears.” At these words Deacon had fallen back from his brother as if he had been possessed by some unseen demon. Deacon fully remembered their father’s bad singing which would normally frequent their car on the family trips the four of them had used to take together, and the way him and his brother used to laugh and beg him to stop. It was also one of the things the brothers had most missed when their parents had died.
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And it was then that Deacon had noticed the small box and pills that lay scattered next to his brother’s semi-conscious body. Deacon had picked up one of the small oblong pills and looked at it. The small pill was one of those gel tablets that had become such a popular marketing tool. It was divided into two sides one white and the other black, with the small word Reqrem printed in contrasting white and black letters along the side. The same pill which had its own set of wildly elaborated rumors floating around the school. Greg wasn’t dying or having a fit, but was rather visiting the past. But unlike what the rumor at school was, it was just Greg’s mind that had gone back to visit some happier time in his life. A time in which the troubles and sorrow of today didn’t exist. But back then Deacon hadn’t known any of this, and had spent the night kneeling next to his brother crying and begging him to wake up until he had fallen asleep against his chest.
Deacon shook the memory from his head, and reached out to turn the knob of the front door. But something caught his attention, a small glint of light down the street, and instinctively he already knew what it was. It was the house at the end of the street, the light reflecting off the binoculars the occupants used to watch the neighborhood around them. It was one of the only aspects of Deacon’s life which he hadn’t become numb to. It felt like his life was under a microscope, every mistake examined by some unseen audience. And it always sent a chill up his spine.
Deacon finally just sighed, and walked through the doorway into the well lit house. But sadly the fact the lights were on was the only aspect of the scene which was surprising, as everything else was the same as it always was. His brother lay sprawled across the couch, his eyes, darting back and forth, watching some distant memory while his hand swayed over a plastic water cup. His body shivering as a cold sweat glistened along his skin. The little silver packets of Reqrem lay strewn about the floor.
“Dad we won, we are go…” Greg said, his voice trailing off as he dreamed about his football days in high school. Deacon noticed the wad of blankets on the floor, and lifted the stack up to his nose, smelling to try and discern which was the cleanest. Settling on a faded green one with some sort of flower pattern dyed into the fabric, he walked over to his brother and laid the worn fabric across Greg’s chest and legs, remembering to tuck in the corners so his brother would remain warm.
Deacon walked into the room they shared and closed the door. Dropping his backpack against the wall, Deacon walked over and collapsed onto his mattress. He stared through the window which lay across the small 8x8 foot room. Deacon had spent many days, leaned up against the windowsill watching the world come to a screeching halt outside. Each day the same as before, the same run down cars parked in the few driveways around the street. And the brown of the dead grass blanketing the small patches of yard in front of each house.
Deacon sighed as he continued to glance through the window and took his wallet from his pocket. Dragging his arm over to the nightstand at the side of his bed he dropped his wallet onto its customary spot without even glancing. This was the nightstand that used to reside within his parents’ bedroom, the nightstand which Deacon had used to hide his Christmas presents for his family in.
The first time Deacon had told his mother that he had bought everyone Christmas presents with the small amount of allowance he was given she had glowed with pride. Deacon had shyly asked if there was anywhere he could hide the presents, and his mother had suggested her nightstand. After the presents were wrapped and safely tucked away into the confines of the nightstand Deacon had spent the next hour making his parent’s and older brother promise over and over again that they wouldn’t peek.
Deacon dropped his wallet onto where the nightstand used to be, and immediately shot up and stared when he heard the sound of the fake leather slapping against the carpet. Where was his nightstand? Panic began to well up in his chest; he was finding it hard to breath. It was as if his cherished memories had been stolen by the hostile world outside his window.
Deacon bolted from his room, rushing for the yellow couch which his brother lay upon. Deacon reached down and grabbed Greg by the shirt, and begun to shake him as he desperately begged for answers.
“Greg the nightstand, where is the nightstand.” All Greg managed in reply was a groan as he began to wake up from his latest memory trip. “The nightstand Greg where is the nightstand from our room.” This time Deacons voice jumped up a few octanes.
Greg finally managed to swivel himself around to a sitting position, his face buried in his hands as he furiously rubbed his eyes to rub the sleep form them. “The wha, oh your home Deacon I must of dosed off.”
“Don’t give me that shit Greg, you were on a Req trip. Where the hell is the nightstand” Even though they both new that Greg was a Reqrem addict, Greg hated admitting it to hisPosted 10-30-2008 at 12:24 AM by Leiv
- younger brother. And Deacon almost always played along with it to comfort his brother but not now.
“Oh it broke, so I put it outside by the trash,
it should still be there.” Greg finished the sentence looking down, embarrassed and ashamed by his brother’s blatant admission. However Deacon wasn’t there to see this having, dashed off to the back door that led to the ally where they kept the garbage so it didn’t stink up the house.
Deacon threw open the door, his eyes immediately falling on the broken top of the small wicker table in front of him, the top was caved in a huge while punched through the center. After gently picking up the wicker nightstand from the street below him, Deacon brought it back to his room and gently returned it to its rightful place besides his mattress.
“I am really sorry Deak, I was just stumbling around the room looking for something and I tripped and put my knee right through the top of it. I didn’t know the nightstand meant that much to you, we will fi…” Greg was suddenly cut off by his younger brother.
“What were you looking for Greg?” Deacons body was trembling as he attempted to hold back the sobs that were bubbling to the surface, his bright blue eyes glistening from tears.
“Well um, I was, ya see.”
“You were looking for the Req I hid from you, weren’t you Greg. Ever since Greg had become addicted to Reqrem he had been asking Deacon to hide the boxes of pills from him, promising that this next time was his last time. And that he just needed the feeling of them being there to help him quit. Greg had been saying this for over five years and was on his hundredth or so final trip.
“Well you see it lik…”
“No Greg it isn’t like anything you were looking for the Reqrem, and the nightstand didn’t break from you stripping on it, you were standing on it to try and get into the air conditioning duct as that’s where I hid it last time. Yes or no Greg?” By now Deacon’s body was shuddering almost uncontrollably his chest heaving with the strain of breathing through his silent tears and tears burnt down his face.
“Yes.” Greg sighed, defeat and disgrace flooding his features.
“Well if you want it so bad…” Deacon walked over to the lamp that stoop on the small desk below the window, and undid the bottom. He reached his hand inside withdrawing the small box which had been encased within. “…Take it.” Deacon hurled the small cardboard box at his brother and fled from the room.
He ran from his brothers outreached hand, he ran from the small house they live din, he ran from the dead grass which composed their pitiful garden. And he ran until he realized he had nowhere to run to. His lungs burned from the unexpected exertion, and his hot tears burnt as they ran down his cheeks. He had no one to talk to, the memories of his parents providing just more grief. It was then that Deacon noticed that familiar glint of light reflecting off binocular lenses. That eerie feeling of his life being on display for some omnipotent onlooker’s amusement running up his spine.
But today was different, today he wasn’t going to feel like the victim any longer. His anger swelled further with each step he took closer to the onlooker’s house. His grief heightening as each cherished memory of his parents and his brother sitting defeated at home ran through his head. And as he approached the door he cocked back his fist and slammed it into the wood, a dull pain running through his knuckles with each consecutive blow. By about the third knock Deacon heard the dead bolt slide open. And the door crept open just enough to reveal the face of the man behind the brass links of the chain lock.
The man’s white hair hung just above his eyes, crow’s feet pinching the corners of his face. His lips were dry and the faded pink blended in with the pale white of the man’s face. But it was those eyes which really caught Deacon’s attention. The worn out grey orbs just seemed to blankly stare off into the nothingness of the night. But it wasn’t the blissful expression his brother often wore on his trips into the happy, perfect past. Rather it appeared like the complete opposite, as with every blink the man was looking upon another new and tragic scene.
Deacon was at first taken back by the man even opening the door in the first place. But the grief fueled anger soon swelled up inside of him again and he began yelling at the man stood before him. “Why are you watching me, watching us? What sick enjoyment are you gaining from my anguish? Why, why, why? Why is this happening?” “Why did this happen?” Deacon shouted at the old man again and again, his anger blinding him to the burn of the tears now freely flowing down his cheeks. His grief clouding his logic and reason, for all he knew the man might be holding a gun behind that door, getting ready to blow off Deacon’s head with a single squeeze of the trigger. But Deacon gave no thought to this. All he saw was him receiving the news about his parents. All he saw was the last six years of his life, each day the world decaying a little more in its stagnation than last. All he saw was his brother, once a shining idol to Deacon, now passed out on the couch a pack of black and white pills by his side. And how much better life had been when the trees grew. Along with how much he missed having a tomorrow. And what he saw was a vessel for him to take his frustrations and sorrow out upon.Posted 10-30-2008 at 12:26 AM by Leiv - With one final wail, a mixture of regret and rage, Deacon finally stopped. The old man just looked right through him with that absent stare and kindly asked “are you done now?” At this Deacon was completely taken back yet again. He hadn’t expected anyone to open the door, let alone ask him a question. He wanted to ask if the man was worried Deacon was going to bust down the door and assault him. And who was this man anyway? For all Deacon knew he was about to end up shot dead, or in tiny pieces scattered throughout the man’s lawn. But while Deacon wanted to say all of this all he could come with was a single nod.
The man slid off the chain lock “would you like to come inside, I don’t think you want to go home right now, and it isn’t good to be wandering about at night. Also I have some water boiled for tea if you would like some” and to all of this Deacon could only muster yet another nod.
He followed the man into the kitchen, and sat down as the man prepared Deacon a cup of tea. The image of him being drugged and cut up in the basement crossing his mind a few times, but at the moment Deacon didn’t really care.
The man introduced himself as Simon, and after the customary pleasantries and meaningless chatter passed, they moved to the living room. The room was cluttered, with books and odd trinkets scattered all through the room. It was at this point the talk turned to Greg.
“Are you telling me that you don’t envy the past like your brother does Deacon?” Simon said, Deacon now having found out that detached and soft way about him was his customary way of speaking.
“Do I miss having a brother who took care of me and not the other way round, yes. Do I miss my life being happy and easy, yes. That doesn’t mean I am going to pop a pill to make it happen.” Deacon retorted his anger flaring up again.
“True, but can’t you see the world around us Deacon, can you blame people for wanting to return to the perfectness of the pas? Can you blame them for wanting to return to a time they were happy; for just a little bit?
“Yes but if everyone is living in the past to avoid how screwed up the world is now, then we lose having a future.” Deacon said, his response rashly blurted out and forgotten before he even had time to think on it.
“Well that sounds like it is the peoples fault.” At this point Simon’s tone seemed to change just a little bit, it was almost as if a small bit of desperation had crept into his voice.
“No,” Deacon sharply said. “It’s Reqrem’s fault. It’s facilitating this whole cycle, it is masking everything, making it ok for us to just sit and enjoy the past while the world stands still.” At this Simon’s eyes seemed to glisten a bit, as if a small tear had crept into the corners of his eyes. From here the conversation went back to trivial things.
Deacon was starting to feel more comfortable wit everything. Just having someone to talk to and confide in was putting his thoughts at ease. Just the fact that he was finally able to speak all of his thoughts and emotions out loud was finally helping him to work things out. And this continued until Simon excused himself to go to the bathroom.
Deacon had been eyeing a stack of photo books during the whole conversation, and though he knew it was wrong, he was dying to flip through them and uncover more about his mysterious host. He picked up the first one, ignore the sense of guilt that accompanied the action, and flipped through its glossy pages. His eyes scanning the wedding pictures of assorted different people, but from what Deacon saw there was no picture of Simon being married. He picked up the second one and glanced through that. These pictures looked much older as they appeared to by college pictures of Simon, and what Deacon took to be Simon’s friends. Some of them had Simon and others dressed in white lab coats, while others were of him lying on the grass. Deacon put that one down and flipped through another, and another until he came to the last in the stack.
This one was different, while the others had been in reasonably good repair, this one looked like it had been violently flung against a wall several times. The corners were bent and frayed, while the black fake leather the book was bound in had a giant slash across it on the front cover. Deacon opened the book, immediately seeing support for his flung around a room theory as several pages were ripped and falling out of the bindings.
The first page had a picture of Simon and two other men, dressed in lab coats standing in front of a rack of test tubes, all three men smiling. The next few pages were all lined paper, with chemical equations scrawled across the pages. All of them proved to be too long and complicated for Deacon’s high school chemistry education. The next few pages were certificates and degree. There was one degree from Stanford for Chemistry, and another for Micro biology from Princeton. A few paper awards filled the next page, and then the final page seemed to be a congratulatory note from the RPC. The name seemed familiar to Deacon but at the moment he couldn’t place it. But it was the next page that really shook Deacon.Posted 10-30-2008 at 12:26 AM by Leiv - The page was normal itself, just a piece of plain white computer paper, with scribbles on it. Some more small equations at the stop, and notes jotted down in the margins in red pen. But it was the pictures at the center of the page that really shocked Deacon. It was a picture of that same pill he had picked up and read the name of six years ago. It was a picture of that same pill whose box he had hurled at his brother just hours ago. The half white half black pill, with the simplistic lettering spelling the word REQREM across the sides, with the lettering on the white side being black while the lettering on the black side was white. Below it was a picture of the pill split open, its contents labeled by an arrow that pointed up to the notes and equations at the top and side of the page.
Wide eyed, Deacon turned the page yet again, which now revealed news clippings, with headlines like, Wonder Pill Takes World By Storm, and Reqrem the Dream Cure for New World Depression. Deacon was in a daze, he closed the album and lifted it to his chest, unsure of what he was supposed to with it. And almost as if he was in a daze he walked to the kitchen.
The world was once again swirling around him, what was going on. The man he had just confided in, was one of the creators of Reqrem, the drug that had been front and center in the post death of his parents destruction of his life. The drug that had turned his brother into a spectator of the present, while he eagerly immersed himself into the past. This was the man who had destroyed his life. Deacon grabbed one of the kitchen knives and sat down at the table with it resting in front of him. Unsure of what he was going to do with it.
Deacon heard Simon’s voice to his right, and turned to look at him, his eyes opened wide in shock and horror while his mouth quivered as it hung open. “What is it you have there?”Simon asked, before he looked to the knife on the table and back to the book clutched to his young guest’s chest. His eyes finally resting upon the slash on the front cover. “Oh”
Deacon was at a loss for words, the world had fallen out from under him again, nothing was making any sense, he shook his head a few times as if trying to wake up from a nightmare that you knew had to be dream but haunted you all the same. Simon walked over and slumped into the chair across from Deacon, his face twisted in anguish and sorrow.
“It would be about twelve years ago now, I was working for the Reminiscent Pharmaceutical Company when me and a coworker first came up with the idea for Reqrem. The idea seemed spectacular the ultimate anti-depression drug for the new age. After all with how the world was then and is now, the best idea we could think of for helping people was to give them that extra bit of hope by being able to see the glory of what once was and could be again. How naïve we were.” “Simon’s eyes began to glisten again, as he stared right through Deacon, his eyes searching for something that wasn’t there, his hands hanging limply at his sides.
“We didn’t know what was going to happen, we thought we were going to help people, we thought we were going to pull the world out of its doldrums. We thought that if people had seen how great things had been they would work hard to make it like that again. But we were wrong. People were already living in the past, creating elaborate and exaggerated visions of this ‘utopia’ we had been living in. And with Reqrem they just became more consumed with living in the past.” Simon’s eyes were now completely unfocused, his voice trembling heavily, begging for Deacon to understand. Tears had begun to run down his face. “And before we knew it our curse had spread across the world, Requim became as sought after as advil.”
“Why did you have to come here” Deacon replied, rage tinting his voice.
Simon just shook his head at nothing in particular, his eyes gazing through Deacons head at the darkness in the window outside, “I fled, the guilt was crushing, I had become responsible for the biggest curse upon humanity since Pandora opened the box, except I had turned hope into the final plague. And since I have asked god for forgiveness almost every day. Nothing like dooming a species to make you turn to religion.” Simon gave a half hearted smile, but all it proceeded in doing was causing the tears to flow over his eyes and flow down his cheeks.
Deacon finally couldn’t take it anymore “I don’t care, you have taken my brother from me, he was all I had left,” Deacon screamed. He grabbed the kitchen knife, and the collar of Simon’s shirt pressing the metal of the blade to the older man’s throat. Simon didn’t struggle or scream, he just looked at Deacon with an almost hopeful expression hidden beneath the red of his tear soaked eyes.
“It is all I think about Deacon, every article about a destroyed family, every protest, and every death, all on my hands their faces and names burned into my thoughts. Please.” Deacon pulled back the blade getting ready to ram it into the older man’s neck, all his hate, rage and sorrow coursing through his veins as he pulled back for that one fateful blow. That strike that would set free his brother, the blow that would set simon free from the hellish confines of the past. All it would take was that final last plunge of the knife to set Deacon free from his past.
Deacon stopped, the blade falling from his hands to clatter onto the tiled floor, free from his past? It was then that Deacon finally realized it, he was his brother, and he was Simon. He was the rest of the world to. They were all living in his past. He was living in the past. Everyday wishing for his parents, everyday thinking about how much better life had been before his brother had become a Req addict. He was doing the same thing his brother was, wishing for thePosted 10-30-2008 at 12:27 AM by Leiv - past to become the present. He wasn’t thinking about how his life could be better, but rather that it had been better. He was the problem not the exception just like his brother was. The only difference he wasn’t on a drug.
Deacon left the house lost in thought, wondering how he had missed all of this. He had relegated himself to a life living in a grief, a life never changing. He was the very thing he had so despised and complained about for so long. He had been feeding his brothers habit, and when he looked at Greg he didn’t see who his brother could be, or who is brother had tried and wanted to be. But rather what he had been. It was the same when he almost killed Simon just moments before. He had been happy and comfortable with Simon because he saw the man Simon had been trying to be, a good man a kind man. But when he had almost killed him all he had seen was the man who had Created Reqrem and plagued the world.
The dawn was beginning to sink in over the distant mountains, its symphony of colors forming a rich picture across the sky. He stumbled in through the doorway of the house, his brother once again passed out on the coach. And to the corner of his eye he noticed a piece of paper and a box at the kitchen Table.
Deacon Please Hide these, today is my last hit. Tomorrow I go clean I promise. These are all my boxes. I Love you and I am sorry.
-Greg
It had taken Six years to finally notice what these notes and promises to quite were. His brother was calling for help, crying out for someone to finally do what he couldn’t. Deacon gathered up the two boxes on the table and walked to the bathroom; he turned on the light and stared down into the toilet. Deacon popped the tops of both boxes and turned them both upside down, watching the small black and white pills tumble out into basin below, their oval shapes twisting and warping as they splashed into the water. He reached his hand out and pulled the small lever to flush the toilet. His eyes mesmerized by the swirling of white and black as they disappeared down the drain.
He turned off the light and walked back into the living room, his eyes falling upon the slumbering form of his brother.
“Love you to”
And with that Deacon finally went to bed, and while he still dwelt on his parents and his brother, there was something that hadn’t been there before. The idea of what tomorrow would hold. Whether pleasant or horrible it was bound to be new.Posted 10-30-2008 at 12:27 AM by Leiv -
good worl like always it took me a time to finishe but goodPosted 10-30-2008 at 01:10 PM by Dany1908 -
tap that allon the floor tap that till you cant no morePosted 11-15-2008 at 10:17 PM by elvispacman -
that was very good leiv, sorry i took so long to read it. good work
Posted 12-03-2008 at 12:57 AM by vesta - old school!Posted 09-22-2010 at 06:46 PM by locke36
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