Narzack

A terrible thing just happened to me.  I got a twinge, the barest desire to play World of Warcraft again.  What the crap.

Narzack

            Tom shut the door lightly behind him.  The moonlight cast a soft blue glow through the open window, illuminating the room enough for him to see.  He padded softly to his bed, briefly observing the thick steel plates that would slide in front of the window, blocking the fatal sunlight.  But, for now, he let the window remain open.  A myriad smells wafted into the room, all of them distinctly Orlando. 

            Tom sat on the edge of his bed, reaching over to the nightstand and pulling out the top drawer.  He pulled out a few books, cds, envelopes; and withdrew a small brown notebook, tattered and worn.

            He gently unwrapped the cord binding it shut and open the book, thumbing through the creased pages, searching.  Momentarily, he found the entry he was seeking.

Monday, June 05

This is it.  I’ve found someone who knows where I can find Nona.

Her name is Jacqueline, and I’m meeting her tonight.  I’m so nervous and excited, that I can barely write this.  It’s just so overwhelming, I can’t eat, and I can’t sleep.  This nightmare is almost at an end.  It’s been nearly a year of people-even the family- telling me that she’s dead, to let it go, that I’m tearing them apart.  But, I know she’s not dead.  God, I know how stupid it sounds, but I would know if she was gone.  I would feel a part of my soul gone.  If she was dead, I would be dead, too, because I can’t live in a world without her. 

            Tom closed the book, shaking his head.  “No more. . .I can’t.”  He bowed his head, fists clenching, whispering, “Please, I don’t want to go on.  It’s too hard.”  His body trembled, and he tilted his head, as if listening.

            He reopened the book, and, shuddering, read on.

I can’t imagine a world without her light, her joy.

What a hell that must be.  I don’t know how Mom and Dad can endure it, if they truly believe she’s dead. 

It doesn’t matter.  I know she’s alive, and I’m going to find her.  I don’t care what it takes.  I will walk down into Hell and carry her out if I have to. 

These last few weeks have been especially hard.  I’m out of money and out of friends.  In fact I’m writing this under a bridge, in the damn rain.  Luckily, no bums are about to kick me out of their home.  Little joke, there. 

Beyond all that, though, I’m lonely.  I’ve never been away from her for this long.  Even when we were at summer camp, I’d sneak over to the girl’s camp to see her.  Of course, I got caught plenty of times and caught merry hell for it.  It was worth it, though, sneaking through the woods, nearly terrified out of my mind from all the ghost stories the counselors told about that forest, but forging on because I knew that she was waiting for me.

I guess this is much the same.   I’m scared and hungry and tired and alone, but it’s okay, because I know at the end of this, Nona will be there. 

I’m so close to the end, here.  I can almost hear Nona; I can almost hear her singing to me, calling me to her. 

This time, I get to save her.  Nona, my twin, hang on.  I’m coming.

            Tom softly closed the book.  And wept.

Narzack

I was working at ESPN on Wednesday, and I think I got punked.  See, I got there for a 9-5 shift, but my lead didn't get there until 10.  So, the guy who hired me, Dan, told me to go shoot the two volleyball games that were going on in the Milkhouse.  I grabbed the camera, went out, and started shooting.  I did some low-angle stuff, got some slowmo shots, and a bunch of really good action clips.  All in all, stuff I was actually psyched about, including some pretty rad slowmo, low angle, close-up spikes.

I gave the filled card to Dan, and by then my lead had arrived, and I was off to shoot baseball.  Meanwhile, everyone in the facility was getting ready to do the first of three live events-volleyball championships.  I figured that my footage would get logged and used as a pre-show package, much like last time. 

Anyway, later in the day, after I'd been out for a while, I stopped in Dan's office and asked him how the stuff turned out and that I was really interested to see how some of the shots I'd tried looked.  He told me that he didn't log it, but if I wanted to I could.  And, I did, though it took me an hour.

Now,  I got the nagging feeling as I was logging that I had just been sent out to keep me busy until my lead got in, and that no one had any intention of using any of the stuff I'd shot.  Which is a real bummer, because I was really proud of that stuff, and it would have been great for the bosses to see it.  As it is, though, it's all there and labelled and ready for use, I just don't know what will ever happen to it.  So, yeah, I felt like a chump.

Elsewhere, I beat The Witcher, which is awesome.  I'm totally stoked for the sequel. 

Also, I realize that though I am not into drama-romance, I can dig it as an element of a larger story.

Go watch Moon. 

Narzack

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time does not stop for a miserable wretch. A creature disgusted with what it could have been. Moving slowly, Tom replaced the book. He would not destroy it as he had planned. No, the book would remain unharmed for all time, a testament to loss, a reminder of the depths to which he had fallen.

Tom rose and walked to the window. He gazed at the city in the distance, a metro of hope and dreams and joy and magic and happy endings, where the hero slays the dragon, the princess finds her prince, and the hideous monster becomes noble soul.

Out there, in that place of one man's gift to all generations, curses are lifted and endings are storybook.

"Here," Tom whispered, "I am the curse. I am the nightmare, destined to fall to Hell and writhe in the flames of judgment." He hung his head in despair. "I am in Hell. This existence is a dream of pain and fear and hate. A dream from which I cannot wake. I had a taste, a bare glimpse of what life was supposed to be like. But, that, too, was taken away. A cruel illusion."
A tear fell from his eyes and broke on the windowsill, the salty water running over the lip and dropping to the floor.

"I hate it. I hate this. I hate everything. I hate myself. I despise, I loathe this demon that I am." Hissing, Tom pounded his fist on the windowsill. The metal slide cut into his hand, sending a spike of pain through his body. He latched onto the pain; he held it deep inside, cousin to the misery that dwelt there. Again, he slammed his hand down, again, the pain shot through his body. Again. Again. Again. Again. Until his blood ran down the wall and pooled on the floor.

Chest heaving, Tom inspected his hand. It was a bloody mess, the flesh torn and bone exposed. But, still, deep inside, his shame and sorrow burned hot and real and unending.

Once, he was a good person. Once, he was happy and proud and kind and good. It was not so long ago. Not so far away.