Domicile: 1st Floor (Kitchen)
In his thought, Ralph Balmont lost track of time; when he finally returned to the kitchen, everyone was gone. There on the counter was a small photograph. Ralph picked it up, only to stare back at himself. It was a picture of him back when he was only 8 years old. The gentle, innocent boy full of life stared back at him. Ralph turned the photo over:
That boy was you. Who are you now?
Ralph's mouth opened to speak, then he closed it. He set the photo down again and walked away from it. There was an accusation in those words, but not in his brother's voice, but in his mother's. While he remembered how she'd treated him when his stepfather had died, Ralph also remembered all the other ways she'd treated him, too. Unfair ways, inappropriate ways, cruel ways. Now, for the other son from her loins to accuse him in her absence made Ralph simmer with rage. He curled the fingers on his left hand into a tight fist. Talbot never had to deal with any of that; it was all on Ralph. Talbot was planned, Ralph was an accident.
No. Not this time. Exercise some control. They want you to lose it. All that abuse, it was to turn you into this.
Ralph's throat closed and he shut his eyes so tight, tears were squeezed from the edges. He raised his fist, cocked back his left arm to throw a punch... and then, his mind thought of Sheryl. That helped him, soothed him, made him regain focus. Ralph had never been able to afford counseling, so he had to deal with his anger with what little skills he could manage. He reasoned that if thinking of someone who'd wronged him caused that bottled rage, thinking of someone he felt deeply for would allow him to control it, keep it from causing everything to vanish into a red haze. Today, he wanted to enjoy peace & quiet, not spend it cleaning up fragments of things he destroyed. He thought of her face, focused on every detail, until he could smell her beside him. His entire arm shuddered, then gradually relaxed.
"Sheryl... I miss you." Hearing himself say it, Ralph realized it was true. He hadn't even felt his mouth move, but he heard himself say he missed her. Ralph leaned against the kitchen wall for support, then slid down it until he plopped on the floor. He stared at his left hand. Could he ever show himself to her being like this?
He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, but all he could do was look up at the ceiling and moan. Where was she now? Would he ever see her again?? As his moaned, the mournful sound escaped his flesh & the dog outside heard him and howled in response. It was such a hurt, pathetic sound, how could she not?
It was like all that loss pooled itself into a force, a toxic mass inside him, and he forced himself to vomit it up. As he lay there listening to the sound escape his lips, it seemed to Ralph that it just went on and on... and on, still yet. by the time he'd stopped, Ralph felt he had discovered a new level of inhaling/exhaling to force out such a long, unbroken sound.
What was it all for? Why did the world continually hurt him like this? Are we born just to suffer? Are we created just to continually have pain inflicted upon us by uncaring, downright hateful forces? again, Ralph lost all track of time pondering these questions, staring at nothing, but staring as deeply into nothingness as he could, finding no answer at all. Finally, he leaned his head back and shut his eyes. He felt like he wanted to just stop all forward momentum, just cease to exist, and become an inert mass that gradually grew to the spot where he lay, but something forced him to push on, to find the strength to push himself up off the floor, gradually rise to a standing position, walk over to his jug of sweet tea, drink deep from it & start walking. He walked out of the kitchen, out of the house, out into the night, which was now quite late indeed. He had a long walk ahead of him, back to town. Tomorrow morning was donation day at the local church & he needed supplies badly. Besides, there was nothing left to ponder; pondering was a wasteful luxury he couldn't afford; time was energy, and pondering was a hinderance now. Ultimately, all human thought devolves into the need to stay alive.
That boy was you. Who are you now?
Click to viewRalph's mouth opened to speak, then he closed it. He set the photo down again and walked away from it. There was an accusation in those words, but not in his brother's voice, but in his mother's. While he remembered how she'd treated him when his stepfather had died, Ralph also remembered all the other ways she'd treated him, too. Unfair ways, inappropriate ways, cruel ways. Now, for the other son from her loins to accuse him in her absence made Ralph simmer with rage. He curled the fingers on his left hand into a tight fist. Talbot never had to deal with any of that; it was all on Ralph. Talbot was planned, Ralph was an accident.
No. Not this time. Exercise some control. They want you to lose it. All that abuse, it was to turn you into this.
Ralph's throat closed and he shut his eyes so tight, tears were squeezed from the edges. He raised his fist, cocked back his left arm to throw a punch... and then, his mind thought of Sheryl. That helped him, soothed him, made him regain focus. Ralph had never been able to afford counseling, so he had to deal with his anger with what little skills he could manage. He reasoned that if thinking of someone who'd wronged him caused that bottled rage, thinking of someone he felt deeply for would allow him to control it, keep it from causing everything to vanish into a red haze. Today, he wanted to enjoy peace & quiet, not spend it cleaning up fragments of things he destroyed. He thought of her face, focused on every detail, until he could smell her beside him. His entire arm shuddered, then gradually relaxed.
"Sheryl... I miss you." Hearing himself say it, Ralph realized it was true. He hadn't even felt his mouth move, but he heard himself say he missed her. Ralph leaned against the kitchen wall for support, then slid down it until he plopped on the floor. He stared at his left hand. Could he ever show himself to her being like this?
He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, but all he could do was look up at the ceiling and moan. Where was she now? Would he ever see her again?? As his moaned, the mournful sound escaped his flesh & the dog outside heard him and howled in response. It was such a hurt, pathetic sound, how could she not?
It was like all that loss pooled itself into a force, a toxic mass inside him, and he forced himself to vomit it up. As he lay there listening to the sound escape his lips, it seemed to Ralph that it just went on and on... and on, still yet. by the time he'd stopped, Ralph felt he had discovered a new level of inhaling/exhaling to force out such a long, unbroken sound.
What was it all for? Why did the world continually hurt him like this? Are we born just to suffer? Are we created just to continually have pain inflicted upon us by uncaring, downright hateful forces? again, Ralph lost all track of time pondering these questions, staring at nothing, but staring as deeply into nothingness as he could, finding no answer at all. Finally, he leaned his head back and shut his eyes. He felt like he wanted to just stop all forward momentum, just cease to exist, and become an inert mass that gradually grew to the spot where he lay, but something forced him to push on, to find the strength to push himself up off the floor, gradually rise to a standing position, walk over to his jug of sweet tea, drink deep from it & start walking. He walked out of the kitchen, out of the house, out into the night, which was now quite late indeed. He had a long walk ahead of him, back to town. Tomorrow morning was donation day at the local church & he needed supplies badly. Besides, there was nothing left to ponder; pondering was a wasteful luxury he couldn't afford; time was energy, and pondering was a hinderance now. Ultimately, all human thought devolves into the need to stay alive.