Bleached jacket and orange specks. (Prologue)

LessThanZero

Bleached jacket and orange specks. (Prologue)

9

23/03/09 à 17:19

"This is not my grandson".
I don't recognize you anymore.
That's what she said.
That's what she told him this morning, when she came to bring some bread and food.
He'd been awake all night. When he heard that, he firstly laughed. Because yeah, it sounded kind of funny, the words, their shapes, this whole sentence sounded funny.
A few hours later, he was sitting here, on this cold wood chair in his living room. The table was a mess, some insurance papers, an empty bottle of perfume, a book.
A bad one. This kind of books you can't read because they're so romanced and cheesy that you just get bored.
Truth is odd. It's hurtful, and sometimes, truth makes you cry.
That's what he knew about it.
Well, for now.
Because the story I'm going to tell is everything but romanced. It's sharpened by events, overwhelming events that grown-up people call drama.
People love to watch drama on television. They love to cry, shed some tears for fictionnal characters, having their sentimental injection, their intravenous of death, crying and laughters.
People love to be led when it comes to feelings. They love to wait, watch their own fall, and then, when they're deep in the wilderness, when everything they have goes away, they love to complain about it.
Because it's convenient.
Because it's easy.
The story I'm going to tell is about truth. It's about this guy. This regular guy, this person you could have been. It's about him, and well, his life. It's about a simple life, something that could seem so small, little and meaningless to you.
Because a life ain't nothing if you look at the big picture.
But this life is a jigsaw I've never been able to figure out.
He told me he always knew he was different. Not that different.
He just couldn't feel things the same way. That's why when his grandmother told him this, when she said, in this sad but true voice that he wasn't her grandson anymore, he laughed.
After what she said, he made a list. A to do list.
He decided change wasn't that bad. Even though his entire life, he wouldn't have said change is corruption. Change wasn't to be considered. Because change corrupts things. It destroys their purity. All the intimacy, the power of a moment. That's why he had decided to stop moving a while ago. That's why he felt jaded and dead inside.
But that's not the point. He couldn't stand it anymore. The people. They were telling him how immature he was, how will-less he got with time.
And through that crowd, he couldn't recall who was on his side and who wasn't, who he could call "a friend", or "an enemy".
So he made this list.
It was very well-written, with a beautiful hand-writing, typical you'll tell me, but not for the boy, who could barely write an entire sentence without itching his thumbs, or putting the pen down because it hurt.
The ink has probably faded now.
That's all that remains. Broken promises and faded ink.
Of course, there's those names on the wall.
Because when ink fades, it only leaves those names. Printed on the white wall.
Those people you can't forget, but can't recall. Those people you hurt, and hurt you back.
But we're getting far from the point, aren't we?
The thunder has begun.
A storm is going to come.
And his only wish is someone is gonna cover his eyes when it happens.
Find the pen. Write it down. Don't let it fade. Don't let them print.
Just like bleach.
Bleached jacket, orange specks.



(i know.)

Orayi  

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