The house across the street had been uninhabited for as long as I could remember, hence, I like to think it was perfectly appropriate of me to scream in fright that day I left the house and saw a wrinkled old man sitting in a tattered chair on the front porch of the supposedly abandoned house.
Now, I wasn’t a wimp. Nor was I one of those boys who belied toughness in order to mask a brittle personality. I was a genuine wall; nothing ever fazed me, nor was I ever victim to the idiosyncratic phobias of other children my age. For the longest time, I was incapable of feeling; no love, no hope, no disappointment, no fear.
But this old man...this old man was something else. If nothing in this world was able to shake me, this old man must’ve been from some supernatural realm. Everything about him was paradoxical and petrifying. His blank, detached gaze and apathetic features somehow emitted a predatory aura. As if he’d been through hell and back and would make you go through the same journey if you disturbed him. Even the way he was collapsed in his chair subtly warned you to keep your distance if you valued your sanity. His rocking chair ominously swayed like a pendulum, whittling a life away with each swing. I stood there, paralyzed by fear, and the old man didn’t move a hair.
For what felt like years, I watched his lifeless form and felt myself transform into a empty corpse. I could feel my soul being dragged from my body, my flesh decaying into dust, and my very existence being eradicated from the universe.
I ran out of air, and my scream was curtailed. That one moment--the moment I noticed the silence--I fled. I ran faster than I ever thought possible, and vowed that I would overcome this. That I would somehow put it beneath me, tur...
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...gain. But this time, there’s no one left to help me through it.
A young boy is staring at me. I don’t move. I don’t look at him, knowing that doing so will just scare him away. Maybe, if I just hold still, he’ll come to talk to me. Spare me from the torture of spending any more time wasting away here doing nothing. Give me something to do for the first time in twenty years. Bring me back to the days when I was young and had the world to explore.
He watches me for a few seconds--the longest seconds of my life. Then, he turns and bolts down the street. Lucky kid. Right now, I’d give anything to have a reason to run. But my body is incapable of doing so, and there’s neither something to run from nor something to run to. So I stay as I am; staring into space as I reminisce about the past, collapsed into my chair as it rocks back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
The night was tempestuous and my emotions were subtle, like the flame upon a torch. They blew out at the same time that my sense of tranquility dispersed, as if the winds had simply come and gone. The shrill scream of a young girl ricocheted off the walls and for a few brief seconds, it was the only sound that I could hear. It was then that the waves of turmoil commenced to crash upon me. It seemed as though every last one of my senses were succumbed to disperse from my reach completely. As everything blurred, I could just barely make out the slam of a door from somewhere alongside me and soon, the only thing that was left in its place was an ominous silence.
All spring and summer the townsfolk spoke about the three bodies that had been found, mangled and slashed. Now, had the three men headed the warning and stayed away from the old man’s house they would still be alive. Instead they were tempted by the greed in their hearts for the money the terrible old man was said to have possession of. This drove them to enter through his gate and knock on the door. They believed that because he was an old man, he would be feeble and week, making him an easy target for
...t agitation, listening attentively, catching and fearing each sound as if it were to announce the approach of the demonical corpse which I had so miserably given life.”
My breath was heavy as I was sprinting from them. I could hear them on my tail. But the only this that was racing through my mind was “I have the book.”
The child’s game had ended. After I nearly ran Kurtz over, we stood facing each other. He was unsteady on his feet, swaying like the trees that surrounded us. What stood before me was a ghost. Each layer of him had been carved away by the jungle, until nothing remained. Despite this, his strength still exceeded that of my own. With the tribal fires burning so close, one shout from him would unleash his natives on me. But in that same realization, I felt my own strength kindle inside me. I could just as easily muffle his command and overtake him. The scene flashed past my eyes as though I was remembering not imagining. The stick that lay two feet from me was beating down on the ghost, as my bloodied hand strangled his cries. My mind abruptly reeled backwards as I realized what unspeakable dark thoughts I had let in. Kurtz seemed to understand where my mind had wandered; it was as though the jungle’s wind has whispered my internal struggles to him. His face twisted into a smile. He seemed to gloat and enjoy standing by to watch my soul begin to destroy itself.
Boom. Breath. Boom. Breath. Each step sounded like a war drum banging in my ears. The harmonious rhythm of my steps consistent with my breath continued on and on as I made my way up the side of the cliff in the middle of these Colorado woods. The sweltering heat was hindering my vision, and I began to feel dizzy. The worst part is, I am all alone.
Gasping in terror I awoke and shot to my feet. He was gone, but where, how long had I been here and ...
In the state I was in, if someone had come and told me I could go home quietly, that they would leave me my life whole, it would have left me cold: several hours or several years of waiting is all the same when you have lost the illusion of being eternal. I clung to nothing, in a way I was calm. But it was a horrible calm -- because of my body; my body, I saw with its eyes, I heard with its ears, but it was no longer me; it sweated and trembled by itself and I didn't recognize it anymore.
...en a strange feeling down his spine again, as if something was breathing on his neck. He turned slowly… seeing if someone was behind him and then boom! The figure was right there, about seven feet away, trying to grab him with his big, skinny, hands, with his sharp and dark fingernails that could rip a man’s heart out… He fell down, so surprised by the strange figure.
Shivering in the blasting cold night, the words fear and death invaded my soul and lamentably waited for the deathblow. The darkness of the lemon orchard under the full moon hidden behind long, high parallels of cloud was accelerating my fear and advancing the idea of `suddenly disappearing` in my mind. I had never thought of death before. The rows of lemon tree standing like elite soldiers made me feel like an enemy soldier captured in war and was being taken to be executed by guillotine. A shotgun was targeted towards my head which made my eyes and legs become paralysed; thus I could not feel or sense anything. My eyes looking blindly and my legs walking briskly with the question” will I die” stuck on my mind like a tick attaches into skin.
The narrator wrestles with conflicting feelings of responsibility to the old man and feelings of ridding his life of the man's "Evil Eye" (34). Although afflicted with overriding fear and derangement, the narrator still acts with quasi-allegiance toward the old man; however, his kindness may stem more from protecting himself from suspicion of watching the old man every night than from genuine compassion for the old man.
It was a beautiful night. It was perfect for a walk. As I strolled further into the park a figure approached me. It was as dark as pitch so I couldn’t make out who it was. It was late; you wouldn’t usually see anyone at this time. My heart was beating faster and faster. The strange thing was I wasn’t frightened; it was just my heart beating rapidly. As the masculine figure approached, I began to walk slower. That was when I heard the voice.
I wearily drag myself away from the silken violet comforter and slump out into the living room. The green and red print of our family’s southwestern style couch streaks boldly against the deep blues of the opposing sitting chairs, calling me to it. Of course I oblige the billowy haven, roughly plopping down and curling into the cushions, ignoring the faint smell of smoke that clings to the fabric. My focus fades in and out for a while, allowing my mind to relax and unwind from any treacherous dreams of the pervious night, until I hear the telltale creak of door hinges. My eyes flutter lightly open to see my Father dressed in smart brown slacks and a deep earthy t-shirt, his graying hair and beard neatly comber into order. He places his appointment book and hair products in a bag near the door signaling the rapid approaching time of departure. Soon he is parading out the door with ever-fading whispers of ‘I love you kid,’ and ‘be good.’
Suddenly I awake at the noise of sirens and people yelling my name. Where am I? Those words radiate out my thoughts but never touching my lips. Panic engulfs me, but I am restricted to the stretcher. “Are you ok?” said the paramedic. I am dazed, confused, and barely aware of my surroundings. Again “Yes, I am fine” races from my thoughts down to my mouth, but nothing was heard. Then, there was darkness.
Day by day, I remained silent in my bed thinking of nothing but my imminent death. I never spoke, consumed anything, nor stood up. I was totally weak. I was literally dying.