PerfectlyAwful
Greenlighter
I'm sorry, I really shouldn't be the one recalling this story. He should but, he can't. I wish I knew his name. For I can only recount his story by the name he referred to himself as in his writing. The name H.
H's body grew tired everyday. He wrote about his descension. It was all he could really do at that point. H knew of his future. One may call him a prophet. I just call him unlucky. The good thing about knowing it was H's unacceptability of it. Why should he accept his future? He was twenty-years-old. How many twenties can you recall dying un-naturally natural.
But H still struggled on, acting as if it was one of those things that just blew over. He wasn't sure what had caused the chemical change in his body. H blamed the time and the environment. He was just one of the millions of other naive teenagers. Unaware of their repercussions. He had settled on the fact, that it was a combination of two events. Experimenting with unknown drugs his chemist friend had made (sadly the chemist turned out worse than H. He literally withered away). And H's problem of taking quite an amount of blows to his head, specifically, his limbic system. Front flipping off balconies, and landing on his head (he never was good at landing on his feet). Helmet to helmet contact. Quite painful to imagine or endure.
These incidents gave H something other than pain, awareness. An overabundance of it. He was too aware. And the one thing that he had really pushed him over the edge was communication. It made him cynical. He hated small talk. Trading useless jabber for comfort. It made him long for closer friends--those who didn't need the useless communication--, but pushed the ones he had further away with every word they'd say, and every word he didn't. They prohibited him from speaking. It's not like he couldn't, he just never wanted to. It wasn't worth the disturbance in the air.
His voice and memories deserted him. He didn't mind, he didn't like to dwell in the past, anyways. He was too concerned about his future.
His prophetic visions started with his awareness. The weed that had broken him of his empty self, had now begun fucking with his brain. Uncontrollable shivering, the bringing of awkward moments, the panic attacks.
He would bare through the smoking only because it seemed like it was the only connection he had left with his remaining friends. H smoked not to get high (as it was quite intolerable), he smoked to show them everything was fine, everything was like it used to be. He was still H.
Dark thoughts would flood his mind, during. Thoughts of his mind and body collapsing. Of him perishing. The smug look on his friend's faces when they heard the news. He grew scared and angry, but not of his future, of his family's.
For the one thing this cynical boy truly loved was his family. His disappearance would be catastrophic. The impact it would have. BAM. And he's gone. All that's left is a hole where he once was. All the things he stood up recently for would be in vain. He'd show them how he played the game of life. How he fucked up. Big time.
Bouts of infinite sadness begun plaguing his daily life. Even before his future he would feel the extent of its effect on others. But it grew his will to live. Unfortunately he was the only one there to push it.
He wouldn't tell his (what?)friends or family. They'd try and feel obligated to cure his ailment or try to take him to the doctor. And H never truly believed in the miracles of modern medicine. They couldn't cure him of his disease anyways.
H needed to be cured of the heart and mind. He needed comfort and love. He needed to be shown what its like to truly live. And to never let go of that idea, so he would never have to think of his future again. That He WAS gifted with the present and he had all the things he longed for right here.
Forgive me H, for I was just too late with the vaccination. Late with the thoughts and feelings I had to cure you. I had watched him die. Alone.
Things I could have done have begun to eat away at my soul. And now I slowly watch myself mirror H's former position. Let's hope I have, what H didn't.
H's body grew tired everyday. He wrote about his descension. It was all he could really do at that point. H knew of his future. One may call him a prophet. I just call him unlucky. The good thing about knowing it was H's unacceptability of it. Why should he accept his future? He was twenty-years-old. How many twenties can you recall dying un-naturally natural.
But H still struggled on, acting as if it was one of those things that just blew over. He wasn't sure what had caused the chemical change in his body. H blamed the time and the environment. He was just one of the millions of other naive teenagers. Unaware of their repercussions. He had settled on the fact, that it was a combination of two events. Experimenting with unknown drugs his chemist friend had made (sadly the chemist turned out worse than H. He literally withered away). And H's problem of taking quite an amount of blows to his head, specifically, his limbic system. Front flipping off balconies, and landing on his head (he never was good at landing on his feet). Helmet to helmet contact. Quite painful to imagine or endure.
These incidents gave H something other than pain, awareness. An overabundance of it. He was too aware. And the one thing that he had really pushed him over the edge was communication. It made him cynical. He hated small talk. Trading useless jabber for comfort. It made him long for closer friends--those who didn't need the useless communication--, but pushed the ones he had further away with every word they'd say, and every word he didn't. They prohibited him from speaking. It's not like he couldn't, he just never wanted to. It wasn't worth the disturbance in the air.
His voice and memories deserted him. He didn't mind, he didn't like to dwell in the past, anyways. He was too concerned about his future.
His prophetic visions started with his awareness. The weed that had broken him of his empty self, had now begun fucking with his brain. Uncontrollable shivering, the bringing of awkward moments, the panic attacks.
He would bare through the smoking only because it seemed like it was the only connection he had left with his remaining friends. H smoked not to get high (as it was quite intolerable), he smoked to show them everything was fine, everything was like it used to be. He was still H.
Dark thoughts would flood his mind, during. Thoughts of his mind and body collapsing. Of him perishing. The smug look on his friend's faces when they heard the news. He grew scared and angry, but not of his future, of his family's.
For the one thing this cynical boy truly loved was his family. His disappearance would be catastrophic. The impact it would have. BAM. And he's gone. All that's left is a hole where he once was. All the things he stood up recently for would be in vain. He'd show them how he played the game of life. How he fucked up. Big time.
Bouts of infinite sadness begun plaguing his daily life. Even before his future he would feel the extent of its effect on others. But it grew his will to live. Unfortunately he was the only one there to push it.
He wouldn't tell his (what?)friends or family. They'd try and feel obligated to cure his ailment or try to take him to the doctor. And H never truly believed in the miracles of modern medicine. They couldn't cure him of his disease anyways.
H needed to be cured of the heart and mind. He needed comfort and love. He needed to be shown what its like to truly live. And to never let go of that idea, so he would never have to think of his future again. That He WAS gifted with the present and he had all the things he longed for right here.
Forgive me H, for I was just too late with the vaccination. Late with the thoughts and feelings I had to cure you. I had watched him die. Alone.
Things I could have done have begun to eat away at my soul. And now I slowly watch myself mirror H's former position. Let's hope I have, what H didn't.
