Skip to main content

Double Identity(Part IV)

But I did see him! And her! In the mirror! He greeted her, in a pleasantly robotic manner. She showered him with much-belated condolences and inquiries- for his health, for his mood, for his living condition(wouldn't that wench just browse the house herself?) and for the weather!? Ha, the weather! He replied absolutely nothing saved that of a constant bow-head and idiotic smile. She was crushed by his idiocy and reticence, and also the fail attempt to display her notorious ardency(Hypocrisy!Idiocy!) Complete noises. He crooked his head somewhat, still keeping that idiotic smile which feigned a pure form of innocence. She was also notorious for her low boredom threshold; she lost the patience to coming to terms of his indisposition so she knocked the table with her knuckles, hoping the loud sound would psych up the numb soul. The escapade worked, for he held his head askew as a dying fish struggling in a net and let out a shriek. A shriek I wished I had never heard unless I was born in hell.

For years I have tried desperately to stop him from making any further scene. I bolted the door, I kept my activities as sedentary as possible, I even tied myself on a chair once I sensed signs of his uncontrollable excitement. But all of those measures still proved to be tragically abortive. You thought the world was the same. You thought you two were of a kind. You thought you could dominate the world, which unarguably included yourself. And things would eventually smooth out in the end, as written in the scenarios.

People have been afraid of me. They claimed to see me wandering around the proximity, like a waif. Gulping down the river greedily at dawn, fawning on dead creatures as vultures when night fell. It was that idiotic smile that frightened them the most. The veiled artlessness which folded up extreme viciousness. So in dribs and drabs people began to eschew me. I had a wrong illusion that world was rumbustious enough to accept people like us, well at least, people like my other half.

So my story ends with me and my alias living happily ever after? Apology, my readers, but I don't think I can ever put up with him, nor can I shake off my intermittent desire to end his life. And end mine. But it can never be that offhanded. I used to be made sit through the grueling family union dinner by my mother. You know that hackneyed process, of people trying to put their fingers into your pie yet water you down all at once. The label of a social inept, the manifestation of social snobbery, all weigh down on me. You feel the repulsion yet the obligation makes you stick to your chair, dealing with those bestial, blood-sucking bastards. The feeling is sort of miserable though, unless you have no souls.

(The End.)
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Paintings in Proust: Vesuvius Erupting by J.M.W. Turner

In Proust’s Swann’s Way , the narrator’s grandmother is described as one who inculcates in her grandson a reverence for the “elevated ideals.” Infinitely disdainful of the mechanical nature of replica, when shown photograph of the magnificent Mount Vesuvius his grandmother dismisses it with a lofty query as of whether other more acknowledged artists did paintings of the volcano in the first place. She is having in mind the great J.M.W. Turner, whose depiction of Vesuvius in flame displays, in her view, “a stage higher in the scale of art.” The enduring fascination with volcanoes was especially evident in the 19 th century, which saw an irregularly high frequency of Vesuvius eruptions that, at the time, alarmed many of the imminent cataclysm that a thousand of years before destroyed the city of Pompeii. Turner, according to a number of sources, may not be amongst the first-hand witnesses of those eruptions, but badgered his geologist friends, John MacCulloch and Charles Stoke...
2 comments
Read more

Felix Vallotton

"He was there or not there: not there if I didn't see him."- Henry James, The Turn of the Screw One sees immediately from Felix Vallotton’s paintings that he must had been a gifted raconteur. The painter was possessed of the natural aptitude of unfolding and withholding the narrative flow at the most propitious timing. Mysteriousness emerges. The viewers are bound to be tantalised. Whilst most of Vallotton’s paintings are about the quotidian, the domestic, beneath them their pent-up energy seethes and trembles, threatening to explode at any moment. It isn’t just the quotidian that he depicted, but the interior dramas. Any reader of Ibsen’s or Strindberg’s plays will know that interior drama can be the most frenetic. A woman leans towards a man, her hand entwines his body in show of sensuousness. She whispers into his ears something that the viewers are forbidden the right to privy to. But one has the eye to deduce, from the slightly wrinkled of the man’s nose and t...
Post a Comment
Read more

Review: La Jetee (1962)

In Matter and Memory , French philosopher Henri Bergson posits an implausible notion – the pure present: “The pure present is an ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future. In truth, all sensation is already memory.” Since time is a movement , an unending progression, there is not a definite point as that of a present moment, Bergson seems to suggest, but an admixture of the past and the future, the has-beens rapidly encroaching on, and eventually subsuming, the what-ifs. In a sense, and as absurd as this may sound, the present is ever elusive to our consciousness: what we perceive of the now , at the very moment in which it is being registered, is already relegated to the realm of the past. The past seems, therefore, the only reality we have really experienced; the reality that we are predestined to never possess. Chris Marker’s La Jetee (1962) envisages a future in which man finally discovers the means of triumphing over time’s irrevocable logic: experiments are ...
Post a Comment
Read more