The Briar
Madness tolls like the hour of midnight yet the sky is not dark and blackness seeps through the soil like the oil of death but when I look down all I see is the luscious green of the meadow but I am not in a meadow, I am here. I am here, I must be because if I am not then who is? Oh! Why must this be so confusing in an hour of complete and utter simplicity? I was warned not to come here but if I do not then who else will and who else can and who else could possibly stop me? Wait, a flower. As I hold it in my hand the luminous colors of the fleeting pedals glow in my palm. If orange is the color of insanity then blackness is the mark of what is to come of it all. Death, the most universal truth in a world of lies for everyone dies but not everyone lives but I have lived, oh yes, I have lived! I have seen the sights and fortunes meant only for the eyes of God and I have heard the sounds of sweet trumpets ascended down from the highest clouds of heaven. But what is to come of it all? What does it all matter when yet, once again, I am here. Here. Ah, but the meadow, with the endless sea of ecchoing green and the scattered myriad of daisies and daffodils bringing happiness to all yet not to my heart, no. What happens when one lets one’s self go but cannot take one’s self back? I am forever stuck in a perennial twilight of the rare dichotomy between absence and presence. My life is written in a time perverse. Like the blacksmith forging upon his heavy hammer I too howl in a dismal stupor and my mind pulsates like the continuous yet monotonous thrusting of the earthly pelvis into the celestial cunt. And that toll! That toll! Oh, that toll! Why must I suffer like this when all my life I have already suffered! Have I not had enough? I do not wish to be here but the harder I try to restrain myself the faster it seems I end up in this ever-familiar place. I am here, I’m now sure of it. That is no longer the issue I am inconveniently faced with, no. Now it seems I must find a way out.
“Go to the country for a few days, do you like to write?” Dr. Hollingsworth is quite the old man now but to speak in a manner of factual preciseness he is still rather an egotistical ass. Do I like to write? What kind of question is that? But rather than entertaining any unruly form of confrontational behavior like a maniacal swine, I answer with the utmost simple of terms.
“I’ve been to the country before, Doctor.” He looks calm yet weirdly annoyed, as if, God forbid, I insulted the doctor’s unquestionable divine intelligence.
“Yes, I know that. I am simply suggesting you go again,” as if the damn fool is trying to discard me like the core of an apple he had previously so gluttonously devoured, “I am only trying to think what is best for you, that is all.”
What’s best for me? How in God’s rightful name can this ignorant pretentious babbling buffoon know what is best for me? Although I must say the doctor does succeed in giving me a good laugh and as I have always said, how can you possibly stay mad at a person if they always manage to make you laugh?
“Perhaps,” I answer, “this next weekend, Doctor.”
“Wonderful. This weekend it is then.”
“No, Doctor, you misunderstood me. I said this next weekend.”
“I see?”
“Oh you do?” he clearly does not, “because if I had meant this weekend like you just previously suggested I would have said ‘this weekend’ and nothing more or nothing less. However, it is precisely because I did not mean this weekend but rather this next weekend that I decided to say that much more. So if you see, and I truly hope that you do, I will not be attending the country this weekend, but rather, as I mentioned before hand, this next weekend. Do you see?”
The doctor sighs his usual condescending sigh; the same sigh that all doctors in the medical field unofficially achieve the right to exasperate along with their rich mahogany wood desk jobs and framed degrees.
“Yes. I see.”
The sun rips apart my skin allowing my insides to pervade out onto the open grass as my eyeballs shriek in agony residing into the back of my skull. I cannot breathe and it is because of this I ask my self the same continuous question; why do I come here? I know what will happen now and I close my eyes to fight it yet when I open them I find myself in the same reoccurring position. And what a most undesirable position it is! The meadow that lies before me is distant even though I sit on the soft grass with the flowers of the spring sprouting about all around me. The flower looks at me with an unsettling disposition. My mind races, searching for a reason for this flower but I cannot grasp a single one. I grab the flower and hold it in my hand and the wind blows east as does the rest of the field. The flower speaks to me in ways I could never imagine. It is different, not for a flower of its time but for a flower in its time. The pedals are thick and smooth and glow a vibrant orange as the sunlight above pierces through the translucent fabric. I have yet to find another like it as I search the horizon far and wide, spanning across the ocean of rolling green. The silk pedals illuminate my palm and fingertips as if in my possession I hold the light of life, and I cannot help but to smile. But I do not wish to smile, I wish to scream, for the bells toll deep inside my inner mind and I yearn to fucking scream like the wretched shrieks of twisted metal in the furnaces of hell. So I do.
“Perhaps you should go to the country for a couple of days,” Dr. Hollingsworth had the same answer for everything, even though he was never presented with the actual question. I suppose that was just the doctor he was. If he could somehow formulate a solution to a problem before the problem had even occurred he would be one step ahead of not only his field, but of all intellectual minds alike. That is what I hated most about the doctor; his overly ambitious contentions that he presumed would lift him as high as the gods. But he never fooled me, no; I was too clever for him, for I had the most favorable advantage over the man, I was not a doctor.
“Yes, perhaps,” but never did I mistakenly let my hand wander too far from the concealment of my own bosom, and never did I let the doctor think, not even once, that maybe, just maybe, I was one step ahead of him.
“Good, then you should go,” he sits there at his desk with his reading spectacles in hand and I assume he has just realized that our conversation, for a lack of a better phrase, has come to an end. The doctor returns the spectacles back to their resting place just above the bridge of his grotesquely protruding nose and he resumes reading whatever childish rubbish it was he began to indulge in before I entered his office.
He hasn’t quite communicated as frequently as he had before the incident, except, of course, with the utterance of his pretentious solution for a seemingly preconceived problem such as myself. Day in and day out, the doctor wastes away the hours in his dark, mahogany office, removed from any human interaction proceeding around him. At one point the doctor even went to the bottle in search for an answer, although I advised him not to, in an attempt to drown his sorrow. Unfortunately for the doctor, as he quickly realized himself, sorrow indeed finds its own ways to swim.
Mold and musk fills the still air of the room and only the sliver of sunlight, which manages to find its way through the slight crack above the square window in the loft, shows proof that there is some life locked away in that dark and ghostly room. But I don’t mind.
In fact, the more reclusive the doctor wishes to be the more I could not mind. We have never quite been able to see eye to eye, that is, Dr. Hollingsworth and I. Perhaps that is merely the case when one set of eyes is at a higher level than the other. Indeed Dr. Hollingsworth has many more years than I but I would not necessarily go so far as to say he has lived a longer life. As I mentioned before, I have always been one step ahead of the doctor, whether he chooses to believe so or not, that is the truth. But perhaps it is not our difference in wisdom or intellect that makes us so distant, no. Perhaps it has something to do with our common acquaintance in the teacher. But that’s all done with anyhow, no longer is that a relevant factor to this ever-lasting feud between Dr. Hollingsworth and myself. A problem that, shall I say, met its solution some time ago, a solution not conceived before hand but rather afterwards, as a means of returning all things back to a state of equilibrium—a concept the doctor still to this day fails to comprehend. Which reminds me.
“I shall go to the country then,” and with that I leave the doctor in his darkened cell of solitude.
Clouds move in the sky like individual vessels of nothingness hovering over me reminding me of what I do not have. The light from the sun above desperately tries to break free from the confinement of the dark and monstrous vessels, glowing around like the halo of sorrow. Bugs, all around me crawl aimlessly without any idea or direction. How could these creatures be so busied yet so unproductive in their actions? They move about and crawl all over me, all over my skin and into my mouth and I cannot rid myself of these bugs so I sit here, among these insects, as I become one with them. The meadow looks particularly brown for this time of year, I suppose due to a lack of rainfall or perhaps even too much of it. How can something so dead look so beautiful? The fields and flowers and brush all have fallen victim to the systematically powerful concept that is nature, as all things are powerless within this system and have no control. But I have control, yes, I certainly do. For once in my life I have control over the past and present as the future waits for a similar fate. I am here now, after years of doubt and waiting and it is because I am here that I finally do have control. They told me not to come here, they warned me what would happen and what wouldn’t but what do they know? They know nothing. Like the clouds above they float aimlessly with no control at all, at the whims of mother nature and all her misery and cruelty, regurgitating facts of nothingness that rain down onto my bare head but not these fields. So brown and so dead and yet so beautiful. I sit here in awe and wonderment of everything that is. But I cannot help but to hear the faraway toll, and I feel a sort of pain in my heart. A small, nagging pain deep in the back corridors of the valves and capillaries of my seemingly beating heart and it too pulsates, hardly, but it is there. But why is it there? In a moment of sheer beauty and happiness this pain prevents me from entering a similar state, from becoming one with the ecchoing green before me. What’s this? A flower of some sorts, but it is not just another flower, no, this flower is different. Of all the flowers littered across these barren fields, this one has found me and it cries to me and all of a sudden I cry back.
I told her she was denser than water because she had more beauty and love in her than anything in nature. But she never did reply, and now we sit here in silence along the bank of our favorite creek that runs through our favorite park. The stars in the night sky shine bright tonight, as if all of God is watching the events that are unfolding here below. As I look at Ms. Jessica my heart fills with joy and excitement. I want to tell her how it makes me feel, her being here with me. I have never taken anyone here, not even Dr. Hollingsworth, and my heart bursts with joy because of it. A calm breeze blows tonight, moving the warm air past the saddened weeping willows draping into the dark blackness that is the creek. As I mentioned to Ms. Jessica before, the world in which we live is not a world suitable for the love and beauty together we can achieve and in order to reach the highest state of pure euphoria it cannot be here on Earth. How can I love something to the fullest of its extent when the love is tainted and ripped down by the evil that surrounds it?
But no longer will that be the case. For after tonight I will experience a love that no man ever knew could possibly exist. Oh, this love! No word uttered by man is capable of describing such a love for it is higher than man—a celestial love that only God could explain. Merely thinking about this love makes me weep tears and these tears are full, so full in fact that they too sink to the bottom of the creek and rest along the rocky floor. Blood flows through my body to every possible limb and vein as I prepare myself for what is about to come—a moment of pure ecstasy. I look over at Ms. Jessica and she feels the same, for she too weeps tears, tears that are full—denser than the water into which they fall.
“Are you ready?” I ask her but once again she does not reply. But just as it always seems to do, her truth speaks to me through the silence, for true love is mute, and oft amazed stands, and just as she quietly suggests, words are not appropriate in a moment so pure as is this one. I stand up as she remains sitting, and as we weep together in perfect harmony combining with the sounds of the night to create a heavenly symphony, Ms. Jessica, with my assistance, rids herself of the burdens of her life and becomes bare in front of my eyes and the eyes of God. Like the moon shimmering in the ripples of the creek, reflecting off the drifting swans, the silver moonlight radiating out of the blackness above glows off her pure white skin, almost in fact, like the Lilly. And what a sight it is! The blood inside me continues to pump and pulsate and race through my veins. Every curve of her body is perfect, rounded like the Roman statue of Venus. I cannot help but to weep and cry and scream all at once for God has put this angel here on Earth just for me and it is only me who can return this angel to its rightful place.
With my assistance, she enters the black and silver waters and she stands there, like a siren of peace and glory and oh, what a sight! If only she spoke merely a word so I could hear her voice, a song of the Gods, like sweet trumpets ascended down from the highest clouds of heaven, if only she would just speak! For if she did and if she sang her song of innocence, (and what a song it is!) this moment that I have created would be rival to none, a moment no man ever has or ever will experience in his lifetime, for no other man could possibly be here, like I am. And in the waters of the flowing creek, with my assistance, she rejoins her fallen tears at their forever final resting place and my heart explodes—ecstasy has been reached.
Hours have passed and although it saddens me I cannot be with Ms. Jessica, I now know my love for her is as pure as the heavens. As I sit here by the creek consumed in the silence of the night around me, I bask and revel in the moment that just was and at this very second, everything is perfect.
But what’s this? The bells of the clock toll and it is midnight and all of a sudden I feel pain. Oh, these bells! The sound of extreme darkness vibrates through the air at each toll. Oh, these fucking bells! How drone and evil! My mind shrieks in complete agony and I wish to rip off my ears. I cannot stand these bells, I must leave at once! I stand and turn to run and I run and I run. I run with all the power I have in my weak and fragile body and then I run even harder. With no direction in particular I run through the city at night but I cannot escape the tolls of the tower. I pass through the dreadful streets of Seven Dials and onward through High Holborn, all under the darkened night sky. The faster I run the closer I come to the tolling of the bells up until the last one has stopped and so I stop too and I look up and I am here, at the office of the doctor.
Although it does indeed cross my mind not to enter through these wooden front doors and most certainly enter a most unpleasant confrontation with Dr. Hollingsworth, something takes hold of me and begins to move my hands as I grasp the cold, metal doorknob, and this thing that controls me is undoubtedly my self. I walk into the front parlor as the door creaks and shuts behind me. There is no turning back now for I have entered the home of Dr. Hollingsworth, and whether he is prepared for it or not, he is about to face the reality and hear the news of the most beautiful fate of the teacher, Ms. Jessica.
I feel a sort of slight sympathy for the old man, for I do understand how close he was to Ms. Jessica and the magnitude of what her company meant to the old, bitter doctor for they were in fact of the same age. But there is no reason in attempting to explain to the doctor the events that have just transpired, for there are no words that could describe the love I now feel. However, it is only right that I inform Dr. Hollingsworth and so I do. But sure enough the doctor does not understand nor will he ever understand, and before he even turns to suggest it, and this time he does not have to for I already know the inevitable answer, I take my leave and head for the furthest reaches of the countryside.
I sit here under the cascade of scattered light shed down from the glimmering green of the outskirts of the tree limbs above and I sit here deep in thought as I look out at the ever so familiar meadow that stretches out into the forever unknown. Immersed in the shade of the gods I think to myself, why am I here? Why have I been brought to this place I so eagerly look for a way out? The cool breeze from the unknown ocean blows in my face and I close my eyes and for a moment I am able to escape. But I cannot. I am here, or at least I think I am. I was told I came here a long ways ago, back in a simpler time but I cannot recollect. The tall grass sways in the breeze as if the right hand of God passes over the blades, heading towards me yet he will never reach. I am forever stuck here, in this moment of isolation and solitude, but I am not alone, no. The flower, which sits in my presence, is so alone yet ever so peaceful. But I hear its screams when no one else can. But how can anyone else when there is no one else here? At least I think I am here, I cannot be sure. Oh, it pains me! Deep inside my intestines twist in utter turmoil and I close my eyes to escape but there is no escape as I am constantly reminded. The cool breeze around me transforms into a strong gust as the right hand of God continues to pass over and the peaceful lone flower screams as loud as ever and I sit here under the shattered shade—sitting and thinking of her.
Wine only becomes greater with its age but only if the grape was as luscious to begin with and it is because of this that the grape of our concern in its finest moment of youth, as I can only imagine, was the most perfect epitome of beauty and innocence, only to be tainted and dragged down by the world in which it so desperately attempts to flourish. But the flower, in all its wonderment and eccentric beauty, calls to me. And now, as it has been bestowed upon my shoulders, it is up to me, and only me, to rid this aging grape of the darkness that attempts to seep into its core and prevent it from becoming only the most heavenly of wines, a wine meant only for the soft lips of the ancient Grecian deities. But I can only do this if I am here, and I cannot be sure of where it is am. All I can be sure of, in this precise moment, is that it is my duty—my utmost obligation that it is there I must go.
Love is a sign of God’s infinite humor and it’s a peculiar sense of humor as is the love that seems to have found me. The love inside of me it is not peculiar in a sense that it is queer, but rather it vexes me as to why I have not discovered it before. As if I have awakened to a world of senses I never before knew existed, I am now living in a perpetual state that I am finally able to, rightfully so, call life. And it is a beautiful life and it is all because of one person, the teacher, Ms. Jessica.
Although I have been acquainted with Ms. Jessica my whole life, dating back to the earliest age which I had not formed any sense of memory or recollection, it was only up until a few years ago, around my thirteenth birthday, that I noticed her true colors and I felt this feeling deep inside that I never before knew existed, a rebirth if I may. She had always shown me signs of her affection and I always mindlessly disregarded those signs as a means of formal politeness. But now, oh how do I ever feel the same love for her! An angel of some kind put on this Earth only for me! But some will argue that Ms. Jessica is not here for my love only, no, and such is the case with the confused Dr. Hollingsworth. All my life I have struggled, as has the doctor, in winning the sole attention and affection of the ever so lovely Ms. Jessica. And it is not only for my sake I succeed in doing so, but it is even more important for the sake of the teacher. For although she may not know now, it is men like Dr. Hollingsworth that embody the darkness and evil of the world around us, infecting her pureness like a viral disease, only waiting to spread and consume not just the entire body, but the entire soul.
“William, are you alright?” and oh, how her voice sings to me with the most heavenly notes! A motherly voice, soft and always concerned; beauty at its finest.
“Yes, Ms. Jessica, only thinking is all,” I answer but I rather listen for it is her voice I yearn for, not mine. As we sit here, along the bank of the creek that winds through the park, my mind races furiously for something to say, a poem perhaps, a way of showing my affection for the teacher.
“You know, I should only imagine you are more dense than this here water.”
“Pardon?” She looks over at me with a vested interest only to show I now have her utmost attention.
“Yes, I am only quite sure, for you, my love, have more beauty and love inside of you than anything else God has put on this Earth.”
I can tell she tries hard to gather her thoughts by the look bestowed upon her face and she searches for meaning of what I had said.
“Perhaps we must go,” and with that she stands up to leave. Have I said something to her disliking? Perhaps my comments were simply too much to take in now at such a relaxing moment. But nonetheless, I too stand up and follow her, only to my displeasure, to the office of the doctor.
She races in through the wooden front doors and I have no choice but to follow, and she leads us into the study room where we find the egotistical ass, sitting at his rich mahogany desk, reading only, as I can imagine, the most dreadful material.
“I need to speak to you, Thomas,” oh how her voice sounds so beautiful even in an hour such as this! I dare not enter into the study for as much as I despise the thought of the two together, I must respect their space. “I’m worried, about William,” her concern, however unwarranted it may be, fills my heart with joy and happiness for I too fear with all my blood and body for her well-being. But of course, the pretentious ass that is the doctor scoffs at her affection towards me.
“There is nothing to worry about, he just needs more time in the country I suppose.”
Hah! Again with the same unintelligent solution to all problems presented to him. I want to scream at the man for his ignorance and stupidity, but I can only laugh, and my anger subsides because of it for how can I possibly stay mad at someone who so easily allows me to have a good laugh?
“But you always say that, Thomas! It’s not right! You just don’t want to deal with him, that’s all!” Oh, her voice! The sound only brings tears to my eyes, tears so full with happiness and love they cascade down to the wooden floor. And it is not to my surprise that she too, is in agreement with me. Together, our intellect is no match for the doctor, and I almost feel sympathy for the befuddled swine. But then I quickly gather myself and remember he is only trying to send me away, no doubt, to increase his time alone with the teacher. A futile attempt for she will never agree to such terms.
“Silence, woman! I will not have any of it! He is to go to the country for a time I deem necessary and that is that!” How dare he speak to her in such a manner! Anger grabs hold of my heart with a mighty fist, but the rage quickly subsides and sadness enters my bones for I do not wish for Ms. Jessica and all her innocence and pureness to be exposed to this sort of malignance. And as much as it pains me to part with her, I know now what I must do, and as much as I do not wish to, I must go there, as the doctor suggests, for it is only there that it can be done.
“Please, Thomas! I beg of you; you know what happens to him when he goes there. I don’t like it!” At this point, she too is in tears and the bastard doctor sits there with his smug disposition.
“Then perhaps you wish I do the alternative? The way I handled it before?”
Ms. Jessica becomes quiet and tears continue to flow down her softened cheek. Before she can turn to see me in the doorway, I flee out of the room and out of this house and out of this God-forsaken city, for I know now where it is I must be and it is there that I will go.
The sun sets leaving this vast land the same way it found it—dark. But as I watch the setting sun I can’t help but to think to myself, what makes a sunset such as this one so beautiful? For instance, I have been sitting here under this umbrella of a tree, staring out at the same ecchoing green for quite some time now, and it was only when the sun began to descend in the sky that it struck me how beautiful this nature can be. For when the light hits at such an angle and shows the true shape and definition of the rolling hills and creates the shadows of the smallest of flowers, it is only then that I see the true beauty of what it is before me. But perhaps that’s exactly what it is; God has decided to shed his light onto the simplest of his creations, exposing their true beauty and love for all to see. And it’s moments like these that I can’t help but to cry and weep like a young boy. And it’s moments like these in which remind me that I am just a boy, which is a hard fact to remember when you are here like I am. But oh this sunset! And why is it that God has decided to show us this land’s true beauty only minutes before the darkest of hours, and only for a slight moment in time, for that matter? But it doesn’t matter; nothing matters now as I sit here, under this tree, this ever so familiar and lovely tree, and stare out at the truest beauty God has to offer.
“What is your favorite flower, William?” She speaks with such grace but asks the most meaningless of questions. But I don’t mind, I suppose. I just like being here with her, my mother, that is. She deserves so much more than what she has to live with, and it pains me that I can’t give it to her. Most days we come here, to the park, and we sit on this bench by the creek that passes by, and most days we sit here by ourselves, away from anything and anyone else.
I like coming here to the park. There is a sort of peacefulness here that I cannot find anywhere else, similar to the country. But what I like most about the park is not the nature that surrounds me, but rather it’s being here, with her. I don’t even like to call her my mother because she is in fact so much more. Her students call her Ms. Jessica, and most of the time I envy her students, for I feel she is different around me, mostly because of the bastard Dr. Hollingsworth. But nonetheless, I sit here in happiness, being with her and no one else.
“What is the matter, William?” She turns to me and I continue to stare out at the creek that flows before us and to be quite honest, I don’t know how to answer her question. For so many thoughts race through my mind I don’t know what to say through words.
“Is it your father?” I shake my head because the truth is I am bothered mostly from the fact that I am here. But it’s not that fact that I am here that I am bothersome, it’s because she cannot join me. For as much as I enjoy being here, it is out there where all the beauty lies, and that’s, I suppose, what I miss the most.
She smiles as I look over at her, and I have to admit it is quite a beautiful smile, and she begins to speak,
“Do you know what my favorite flower is?” once again I shake my head and she smiles and continues with her soft and heavenly voice, “mine is the lily, do you know why? Actually, I suppose it is because of this poem I once read, when I was little:
The modest Rose puts forth a thorn:
The humble Sheep; a threatening horn:
While the Lilly white, shall in Love delight,
Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.”
Silence consumes us as I can only sit and think in awe as her voice enters my mind like the most beautiful music I have ever heard. And as if she knew all along what it was that bothered me deep inside, she says, “you see, William, there is beauty all around us. It is everywhere. And you don’t even have to look hard. There in lies the beauty of it all. It is all right in front you, right in front of your very nose.”
And it hits me. My heart floods with warmth and I can’t help but to smile the grandest of smiles, for I now know what it is I’ve been missing. And although it pains me I have to leave for the country in only a matter of days, I can only be happy, for I know what awaits me when I return.
I’ve been walking for a long time now and I’ve seen nothing but the endless fields of the ecchoing green meadow with all its daisies and yellow flowers, it’s quite beautiful actually. It’s quiet and there’s only the sound of the grass rustling in the light breeze. But I do see a tree, a nice small spot hidden from the hot sun high above. It’s the only tree I can see for miles, so I walk up to it and sit under its outstretched branches. I like it here. In front of me there is the rolling fields of green and yellow, but what’s this? A different flower. It’s not yellow or white or even green. It’s an orange flower. And how beautiful it is! But as I stare at it something comes over me—a feeling of some kind—a very queer feeling. I’m only ten years of age but I don’t feel ten I feel much older, much different, like this flower that sits next to me. Oh, this feeling! How different it is! I’ve never been to the country before, my father, a doctor, sent me here but my mother warned me telling me the countryside is no place to be alone. I suppose it’s better than remaining at home, however, as I look down at the bruises on my arms and legs. In fact, I wouldn’t mind the idea of never returning home. I don’t know why my mother would warn me not to come to a place so beautiful. But the more I think about it, I don’t feel as if I’m in a place so peaceful and beautiful. I feel as if I’m in a place much different, perhaps, as does this flower. But it doesn’t concern me that I’m in this strange place and not in a nicer surrounding, for I quite like it here, wherever it is that I am. Perhaps my mother was warning me about this place. But I don’t mind her concern, for she’s only a teacher and what could she possibly know? She knows nothing. I look down at this flower burning ever so orange and I look out at the meadow before me and the nothingness before me and I can’t help but to think about this place that I have found within these thorns of this briar and oh how it excites me that I’m here! For it is here I always and forever want to be and I never want to find a way out.
