Describe a ‘First’
The first time I went on a desert tour, deep in the sandy oceans of Oman, it was an experience that frightened me from head to toe, but also filled me with excitement, like a small child at the funfair.
Sitting in the 4X4, I thought it would be a boring drive over the natural yellow hills, but as soon as the Arab perched in the driver’s seat took off, it was like a roller coaster, but without the tracks. The car was turning unpredictably left, right, forwards, sideways, with my head banging against the roof every time the death trap went over a bump. However, no matter how much pain I gained, it was one of the most exciting events in my life.
The first thing you think of is bad,or evil, or you might have an image in your head of the tall bully in year 5 that used to steal your lunch.
A surge of anger will rise in your body making you want to grab the nearset book and experiment how many different ways you can smash it.
Your cheeks start boiling, turning more redder and angrier than a kettle at boiling point.Your body starts shaking like you’ve got a permenant twitch.Beads of sweat start racing down your face, struggling to reach your chin faster, and finally your eyes switch to black. It’s done. Your over the bridge.You feel pure hate.
So, you might think i’m crazy, promoting hate.But seriously, would you rather see people constantly being nice to each other? Where’s the entertainment?
World without hate is dull, boring and lifeless. Don’t you like the drama, hand-flicking, in your face, loud confrontations that have you gasping for hours?
Let’s face it …
HATE is LOVE.
– The headless man
– The grave digger
– The convict
My dreams had come true. After six years I was finally out of prison. As I walked out, through the huge metal gates that could kill any man, woman or child by frying them with electricity, I looked around to see the late evening with all the roads empty and dark. In the far distance I could see a faulty street lamp, flickering on and off, lighting up an old sign. I squinted to read the sign which said ‘Cemetery’. I wasn’t in any rush to get home; I mean spending the last six years in prison, locked up behind bars was long, so another hour away from home wouldn’t make much of a difference. However, if I had known that the horrific event that happened that night were going to occur, I would have gone straight home without taking a detour through the local cemetery.
As I walked down the road, the whole village looked deserted. All the shops were boarded up with the shattered glass littering the filthy, dusty pavements. There was no sign of human life, until I turned around the corner and casually strolled into the cemetery. At first I thought my eyes were deceiving me, but after blinking a few times, I reassured myself that what I was seeing was really happening. In the gloomy corner, I could see a hooded man, digging into a grave with a huge pile of dirt covering the gravestone.
I stood, frozen in my shoes, observing for about a minute until I saw a second man emerge from the grave dressed in a decayed black suit. The screams from the grave digger were soon silenced as hundreds of different emotions passed through my body, when this headless figure dragged the grave digger into the black six foot hole. Afterwards, I saw the red blood splashing out from the grave, contrasting with the dark black night. The last thing I saw was a severed body being hurled out of the grave, and the headless man emerging once more from the grave with a new head placed accurately on his shoulders, the drying blood acting as a type of glue joining the existing body with its new head. He was no longer the headless man.
I feel fine, which should be somewhat worrying, a smaller part of me takes note of, considering my relapse brought me back to hospital…What is that sound I can hear?
Beep. Beep. Deep, steady breaths are heard. BEEP. BEEP-BEEP-BEEP! They quicken, and then start to slow. BEEP! BEEEEEEE-They stop.
Oh, I think that’s me…
Everything is swamped into the blackness, and I remember.
A little girl stands beside a woman who’s laying down on a bed of plush cushions and a quilt covered with patches- each a memory, she says. Stitched with patchwork memories, the girl dimly recalls. The image is hazy, no clear lines, with time. Everything looks soft. Especially with the pastel colours that dominate the bedroom they’re in.
She’s laughing [loudly], happy, trying to be quieter for the lady- but she’s listening, too (and the lady’s smiling).
Almost too quickly, the image shifts, the woman seems to fade, losing colour; skin, lips, even eyes. But not her hair, strangely. They’re in a [ hospital ] room [now], filled with tubes and tape, should-be-startling machines (that somehow add to the overall picture), an interlocking network, (like) a body- the inside of a body [ strange clear blood passes through plastic veins ]- into her [Mommy].
She sits quieter now, still happy, but more subdued; quietly happy. Both sets of eyes are shining, one faded, worn, paler [ losing sight], the other bright, darker, slightly gentle-er than you would expect of a child [ too young, too young]. But both are still full.
Her mind’s eye blinks, and the image [memory] has changed.
Older [ still too young- ].
The mechanic system is absent. A wheelchair sits next to an open window, empty. The image-memory gets suspiciously blurry now, as hands come into view, palms up. In them is a small delicate book- when opened, is contradictory to it’s outward appearance [ bright, coloured, vivid ], and in it, a lock [a curl, a ringlet] of bright, blonde-yellow hair.
Two damp marks appear on the paper. The image (frozen) fades.
– Present –
“We’re losing her! We’re losing he- Give me 22cc’s STAT! Hurry! You, stabil-”
Everything white’s out. But not before one last thought:
Momma, I’m coming home…
(Name) was found holding a single lock of hair.
She hadn’t let go; later, they found the book on her hospital room’s only night stand.
In the other hand, her will, in elegant writing:
“My most treasured possession, for my beloved god child
– the book is for you, please take a look.”
What was inside? Well, generations of family (not always of blood) had placed but the most treasured of things, all from following the words -enameled- on the binding(and your answer):
“You decide; look inside your heart and let precious things flood onto the pages.”
What would you enter?