Vices II

Paul pushed the key into the door. His wife and children surrounded him, silently, in anticipation, waiting. Paul ground his teeth, jammed the final millimeters of the key into the lock, and twisted it sharply. The door, painted a mellow red, swung open. The house was clean, it looked almost untouched, perfect, save a few of Bonnie's toys littered on the floor. Paul led the way inside, the rest of his family left some distance before melancholically sauntering inside.


Paul looked around, and sighed loudly. Nothing in the house had changed, but the atmosphere, the feeling, was drastically different. The floral wallpaper, yellow and peeling, seemed darker. That's what Paul then placed. The house seemed darker than usual. Maybe it was just in his head, after all it was the middle of the day, and the sun was shining brightly now, the rain clouds had faded away. Nancy led her young sister up the old staircase to their joint room, leaving Paul and Gloria alone.

Gloria sighed, collapsing in her armchair. Paul merely stood in the center of the rug, his hands firmly in his pockets. He observed the rings of dull colour; greens, browns, burgundys - why did he ever buy it? He hated it. Standing on it became increasingly inappropriate. Whilst still looking at the floor, he side stepped off of it.

"Paul," Gloria began. Paul had not made a sound since they left the graveyard. He neither coughed nor yawned, sighed nor sneezed. The only evidence that he was still alive was his moving limbs, which he still did in a sort of dazed and mournful manner.

"Paul, it wasn't your fault. We don't blame you, no one does. It just happened." Gloria did her best to prize something from her husband. It had always been difficult, even before their son's passing, to get any overt emotional response from him. He always reserved himself, never showing weakness.

"Paul, you know we still love you and everything you've done-"
"Shut the fuck up Gloria." Paul interjected "I don't need your comforting platitudes. I know what I am. I'm going upstairs, don't follow me."

As Paul walked nonchalantly upstairs, Gloria, back arched, bit her lip and looked at the floor, tears beginning to blur her vision.

Vices

The year was 1956, it was mid October time, rainy season. The graveyard was vast, but only a few hundred headstones occupied the acres of land. Ralph Steadman's headstone was tragically one of these. As light drizzle trickled down on the black clad mourners, the casket was delicately lowered down into the sodden ground. Ralph's bereaved parents did not hold an umbrella over their heads, the droplets of rain joined the tears on their faces. The hole in the ground seemed to never end, bottomless, the shiny wooden box descending for what seemed like an eternity. Paul Steadman, Ralph's father, made the coffin himself. He holed away in his toolshop stockroom for 3 days solid, crafting the casket. He lined it with the finest silk, cushioned all the way inside. For 3 days he didn't speak to his wife Gloria. He said nothing to his daughters, Nancy and Bonnie. He served no customers, he acknowledged nothing but his work. It was the morning of the funeral, and Paul had still not spoken. Gloria, in the privacy of their bedroom, tried to coax something from him, but to no avail. They all got ready, black dresses and headwear for all the girls, and a black suit for Paul. It began raining as the coffin was being brought to the gravesite, a light trickle soon evolving into heavier shards. The reverend spoke of commending Ralph's body to the ground, and Gloria let out a yelp. Paul stood, staring blankly into the hole his son was being 'commended' in to. He did not acknowledge his wifes anguish. Instead, he let her cry alone, just as he cried in the shop when Ralph fell from the ladder and hit his head. Just as he cried when he watched his son's blood drip from his ears. Just as he cried when he held Ralph on the hard floor of the shop, knowing the his precious son was gone. Paul looked into his son's eyes, watched the whites turn to red, watched the life in his pupils escape. They had been laughing and cavorting the moment before, a lapse of concentration by Ralph caused his footing to slip whilst stocking the nail shelf. And that was it. His head his the floor first, his brain haemorrhaged and it was over. His life, 17 years of it, was done. Finished. That's it. Paul had already pondered this over and over. His outlook had not changed. He didn't think anything more on the fragility of life. His views were not tarnished. But he was somehow different. He had always been distant emotionally, always headstrong and logical outspoken only when appropriate, something he had passed on to his daughter Nancy. But as he stood in the graveyard, the shaded sky insulting him with its ablution, he had changed. He decided, as his two creations were touching the soil at the bottom of the hole, that neither of them shall be spoken of again. By anyone.

Missing

As human beings we strive to be revered. Even as I'm writing this now, I have a vague hope that someone will appreciate it and inform me, so it seems like my effort was not in vain. Most endeavours people partake in are done with the assumption that someone will acknowledge them; mothers cleaning the house; fathers labouring at work everyday for a half decent pay; children completing their homework on time- sure, these things all have a face value meaning to them, cleanliness, monetary gain, obedience, but all of them are done with the wish that someone, usually someone with a personal significance to the individual, will give them kudos, gratitude, appreciation, acceptance.

It could be said that I have a bit of a complex relating to this particular issue. Sure, I'm lazy, I don't really do anything to warrant any sort of gratitude or appreciation, but when I think I deserve it, I really think i deserve it. If I don't recieve the required amount of applause for my efforts, then I become disheartened. I don't feel like doing anything again. If people don't love what I do, fuck 'em. I don't need their thanks, I don't need their applause, their appreciation or kudos.

But I do. I thrive on it, it's the only thing that really makes me want to do anything. I live on the hope that someone will appreciate me. Do not mistake this for insecurity. Insecurity would be being unsure that what you've done is great. I know what I've done is great, I just need other people to realise it. Why can they not just realise it? Is it so hard to see that what I'm doing is special? Are these cretins so blind, that they cannot bear the shimmering gold that is before them? I lose faith in humanity when humanity loses faith in me.

It's a vicious, vicious cycle.