Lonely Sea
The evening sky perfectly blended with the yellow of the sun. Clouds flocked together, so they don't drift apart. The freshly painted white wooden fence gleamed, and the cool breeze from the sea made the heat bearable. Birds sang from the trees, and dogs lay down on the streets, carefree. The cats lie their head on the rooftops where the world cannot reach them. And, the scent of the fallen petals made you forget about yesterday—leave the world unattended for some moment.
The roaring sound of the engine alarmed the lazy dogs. Anyone who saw the car- how can they ever be more thankful for their eyes. The car cruised through the town to the lonely house, where the birds sang: it's garden: a grave of petals. As the car stopped at the gate, two attendants rushed to the car. One opened the door and the other held the umbrella.
The brown leather shoes stepped on the grass: he only had hair on the temples, and the back of his head. The collar of his blue shirt had turned brown, and even on a hot day he wore his checked sweater. A golden watch loose on his wrist, and a golden pair of glasses sat on his long nose. His shaky hands held onto the attendant's arm; he had an unusually wide smile on his face.
After living a life full of mistakes and failures, he has now made peace with them—finally accepting that fate is unbothered by the ambitions of man. After a long look at his house, he entered it for the last time.
The old man entered his room, and put off his sweater. He dragged the chair out, and sats on it—he rested his hands on the table, and his face on his palms. His shirt was warm with sweat.
…
… His bed was neat; the white sheet had few wrinkles. The red rug smelled of aging; the three tall sea facing windows were open, and just beside them was a wooden table. The room stayed still.
The breeze flowing inside, carried few papers out of the window—one after the other, they glided until every word slowly drowned in the sea. The ink did not bleed that day; the chair remained idle. The breeze from the sea, missed the view of the man, on the other side of the pane.
The sun is setting, and people have gathered in the hall of the big mansion. The steps echo in the passageway among the sounds of the hall, and in a quiet room a voice speaks to himself.
"Oliver Guard— the hero … a hero of this generation!
A rebel, A voice— I'm a voice, For the unheard–the one to bring a new era, of! … of?" he mumbles to himself, "literature. The dying—trampled soul, cries. The growling stomachs and helpless eyes. (giggle) A young man, man of ink and paper, brings justice to this world." He paces around the room, with his hands behind his back. He swings his hand, "Oliver Guard! could piss words— and people would kill to fill their jars!" … He glares at the garden, bathing in evening sun, as he sits on a chair behind the curtains. He rests his chin on his knuckles; frowning, he closes his eyes—
"Yet—he ponders beside this window, hiding in the shadows of these curtains. Waiting. Hoping—for this suffocation to end… fuck, is this—misery. My misery?" he rests his head on the chair arm, "aah~ an irony, why could the world not have one simple—" the door creaks open, a smooth voice calls "Oliver", his attendant stands at the door. He looks at her— her face is blank, and her eyes are sharp. "Guests wait for you, hurry up".
"Noble Beauty" story of a girl born to poverty, in a world of wealth. Oliver spent more than a year finishing the book, and it became a hit. Thus, his family decided to celebrate, and after a long time Oliver had set his foot inside the house.
Oliver walks in the passageway and she walks right behind him. Oliver stands by the stairs, his right hand on the railing; he doesn't blink as he stares at the gathering in the hall. A huge chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and the folds on the tall violet curtains was very pleasing to the eyes. No hand held an empty glass, and the slow music was playing in the background, as people swayed to its rhythm.
Oliver looks at her, "Loreal" then he turns his back around "If the ceiling fell—crushing everyone under it, this day would be our last", "It'll happen at any moment… wait, just wait". "Keep waiting, and it never happens" He taps his hand on the railing. His chest hurts, as he asks her "why?" Loreal stands silently, looking at him with her squinted eyes.
"Or, maybe if the—" Oliver looks around "the chandelier falls. Doesn't kill everyone, just one. One person dies— and his family, will live with a stain in their heart." "Why, why him—why her, why couldn't it be anyone else. why did it have to be My lover! My parent, my child, why couldn't it be anyone else. among everyone, why him, why her, why! us"
Loreal squints her eyes, "yes??… nobody wants to suffer, even if—"
Oliver stares at the people again, his voice under his throat "does anyone ever care for the suffering of the other? Everyone suffers the same, weep; ache the same, and lose the same. Yet, we won't stop wishing it to be someone else, we can't prevent out heart from getting stained … ooh what tragedy it would be" Loreal sighs "just a small accident, just a small little- accident … But it won't happen—It could. But it just won't. We stanD here, AnticipATe it in our minds, WaitinG Gor it to shape IntO Reality AND! … and time goes on. We live— what a disappointing relief." Before Oliver could continue Loreal pushes him forward.
They walk down stairs taking their time, "Loreal, why do we imagine. What's the point of fantasizing about it if it's never going to happen" … Oliver turns back to Loreal.
Loreal— "… For many, it's a sense of fear, fear of unknowingness, fear of losing, suffering, and as you said, if one dies, just one, the family would most likely live their life, wishing it was someone else, someone else who suffered. But, it's natural to wish, wanting what's easy, what hurts less … I don't see any problem with that."
"Though, for you, it might just be", Oliver stops and looks at Loreal, he raises his eyebrow, Loreal looks away "maybe just the curse writing, everything just seems, like a plot, doesn't it?" Oliver tilts his head, looking down the balcony once again. A moment where silence fills the air between them.
"If reality was written by my pen, this place would be a rubble and our grave. Everyone would suffer the same, no exceptions."
Loreal, "explain that to the guests, c'mon move". Oliver smiles a little as he glances up at Loreal, she looks away and he smiles wide.
Oliver looks left and right as he walks; everyone's smiling at him, he feels nervous inside his proud chest, and uncertainty under his smug eyes. People praise him, congratulate him, and after every few steps he glances back at Loreal, and she doesn't even notice it, her eyes look at the faces Oliver can't see.
Loreal stops behind as they reach the small stage, Oliver climbs up on the stage, a big smile on his face meeting with a thousand grins in return. The lights dim, everyone including Loreal fade into the background, the spotlight on him now, It's Oliver, only Oliver in the hall. He shrugs his shoulders and cracks his neck, and with a wide smile, he welcomes the guests. Right away, Loreal's ears catch whispering voices from the dark, "welcoming? Now? We should be the one welcoming the kid at this point" Loreal stays quiet, Oliver goes on, pouring his heart out, his story behind the book, what inspired him to write it, how was his journey, few even shed a tear with him. Loreal stands still.
"hello~" Loreal glances to her left without moving her head, with the lights dimmer all she sees is a tall silhouette next to her, then, as professional as always, "… hello" … a silence follows, a sigh from the man, he looks at Oliver, "some are so gifted aren't they … lucky, fate favours them, and some, are left as forgotten shadows", Loreal stays calm, quiet, she then tilts her head a little, her eyes narrowed as she looks at Oliver on the stage, "yes … some sure are—gifted …". The man looks at her as she utters those words, though he can't see her face, he sees the glow in those eyes, then, before vanishing into the crowd, a silent whisper, "~Loreal …" but, she didn't hear it.
Oliver's eyes tear up as he pours his heart out in his speech, he paces left to right on the stage. He notices his mother in the crowd, looking up at him—proud, but not satisfied; almost like embarrassed. They lock eyes, Oliver takes a long breath and goes on with his speech, he avoids looking at her. His mother however, she does not take her eyes off him—looking at him her heart beats faster, and faster, as she tries to control her breathing.
Oliver gets off the stage with a proud feeling. The hall is again filled with chatter and music as if the lights never dimmed. A drink in his hand, and praises in his ears, Oliver is drunk in this party. smiles and laughter surround him, and Loreal right behind him.
"What a story!! Truly, an amazing one" "when will your new book come out", "oh- what a talent" "star of the new generation"—Star, of the new generation, that's what spins in his head now, he turns around, Loreal still stands, with her sharp glare. Oliver grabs a drink from the tray, and hands it to her. Her eyes widen, confused, shocked; the laughter around him turn silent, he pulls Loreal grabbing her arm beside him, and whisper in her ear, "you're always behind. Today let's stand together" he giggles looking at her face, everyone around looks just as shocked as her, "!!are they in a romantic relation?" "What!! But that's a maid", Loreal freezes on her spot. Oliver looks confused as he looks around, his smile turns into disappointment; he frowns, then slamming his glass on a tray he leaves—Loreal, still with that expression, follows Oliver up the stairs; she has the glass of wine in her hand. As he climbs up the stairs, he glances at the people once: from afar, his mother looked at him- now, with more confusion than disappointment.
[beside the window]
The moonlight lit up the passageway, the cool breeze flowing from the tall windows, and away from all the suffocation they both felt in their own ways, they found comfort in the company of each other's silence. Oliver leaned against the wall between two windows, staring at the floor, his arms crossed as he pondered, slow blinks and controlled breath, he looked more depressing being in the shadow.
He looked to his right, Loreal stood still, facing him with the usual blank face, but right now, it felt as if she as in her own thoughts.
As she stood there and he looked at her—for the first time in his life, Oliver was struck by beauty that his mind failed to comprehend. He was still, his breath slipping out of his hand, and his mind completely ignored about what happened in the hall.
The wine glass on the sill, reflected the moonlight on her face—her face was glowing. Her hands pressed between her thighs, her white dress had a glow and the black sleeves kept her human, she had few grey strands mingled with the perfectly braided hair, those long lashes took its moment to blink, and his heart waited for those blinks so it could beat in sync with them. Those sharp—piercing eyes glared at him like always, she has a small mole below her left eye, the shadow cast by her firm slim nose bridge on her right cheek somewhat made him jealous of the shadow. The earring shined brightly, and into Oliver's pupils directly— yet he dared not blink. He then wondered, "does she feel nothing? Is it just my heart throbbing? Her breathing seems normal, is she controlling her breath?" Her thin soft lips pressed against one another as he stood there frozen, then, those cold eyes softened just a heart-beat and looked at him with a tenderness of forever, before fading into the depth of her coldness.
Tonight, Oliver finally saw Loreal.