Darkscribes.org

Searching Wounded Valentine: Steven.

    "Sometimes it's the menial things which define a person. The way we
turn corners, or the way we toss a lighted match."
    Steven stood with his right hand on the edge of the open door
of a refrigerator. He moved his hand back and forth, the cooled air
rushing out and the warm air rushing in. Equalising. Condensation formed.
The droplets gathered together and were pulled downwards by gravity.
    The refrigerator contained one item: a mango on a plate. Two items,
more correctly, but only one was eatable.
    "What does it take to live a fantasy?" murmured Steven. He closed
the refrigerator door. "To live a life with unfocused eyes," he
concluded.
    Steven was dressed in a long, blue, English dressing gown, fastened
with a red belt. He was barefoot.
    Going into a room, he re-emerged dressed in a long, black coat, black
pants, black shoes, white socks, black hat, and sunglasses. He was
slipping a wristwatch over his right wrist as he walked through the
doorway. It was a quartz crystal, analogue watch. The time was 11:38.
    Walking over to a table, Steven picked up a pen and wrote something
on a piece of paper, the pen in his right hand. He clicked the pen,
causing the tip to slide into body of the pen. He gazed at the pen, then
placed it down on the table.
    Steven walked over to a door which, when he opened it, led to a long
hallway which was angled steeply upwards. He went off down the hallway,
his black coat trailing on the smooth floor. The lights of the hallway
were dim, and the doors on either side of the hallway were without
numbers, and were red.
    Time passed in an instant, and now Steven stood on a stood hillside
overlooking a deep, black valley. The wristwatch on his wrist read
12:03. It was night, and the moon overhead cast a white light on the
hillside, yet it did not touch into the depths of the darkness.
    "Someone once said something about...if you stare into the darkness,
the darkness stares back. They were wrong. It's not the darkness staring
at oneself, but that which dwells within it."
    Strange sounds drifted up the hillside from the dark depths. Whispers,
creaks, and rumblings.
    A shadowed from approached from Steven's left, moving swiftly, in
rapid spurts. Whatever it was, it was slender and determined in its
actions.
    As it moved out of shadow and into the moon's light, it was revealed
that it was fox, red even in the moonlight. It approached Steven, coming
to within 3 meters of him, then it stopped and sat down in the manner
which foxes do.
    Seconds passed. The fox did not move, but breathed softly, its gaze
fixed on Steven. Steven turned from his gazing into the darkness and
gazed at the fox.
    The the fox spoke in an eloquent, calm voice. "Blood is on your hands.
I can smell it."
    Steven didn't reply, instead continuing to gaze at the fox. So the
fox continued, "This is where you have come. Tell me, why have you come?"
    Steven's lips parted. He spoke. "I don't know."
    "Was it to lose your being in the darkness which you gaze so
longingly into?" inquired the fox.
    Steven broke his gaze with the fox, turning to look again into the
darkness of the valley. "The darkness?" he murmured.
    The fox said unto him, "A dark void. The moment of life at the instant
where the dream fades, yet is not yet gone, and the life which is real
is yet to fully begin. Where all that is is not yet seen, but is not
obscured by your eyes. The moment all seek to cling to, but all wise find
that it is just a vapour, just as is your mortal existence."
    "I had a dream like this," said Steven. "When I was young."
    "And how did this dream conclude?"
    "I awakened," replied Steven.
    "How are you certain that what you think is life is not merely a dream
within a dream?"
    "I counted up the dreams," said Steven.
    "You have great faith in your memory. Are you absolutely certain that
which you speak as certainty is not merely desperate and wishful hope?"
    Steven turned his gaze back to the fox. "What are you?"
    "What answer are you expecting? A name? A description? A thesis?"
    "You're a talking fox," said Steven.
    "Don't be ridiculous," said the fox, speaking these words without
humour. "Foxes cannot speak."
    "What are you then?"
    "I am what you say that I am."
    "That's an inconclusive and ambiguous statement," said Steven. "Its
context defines its meaning."
    "Just like so many other things," said the fox. It then asked, "Where
do you intend to go from here?"
    "I don't have to move from this spot," replied Steven.
    "This is true, but by standing here, you become a prisoner of your
will."
    "So. Why am I here?" asked Steven of the fox.
    "Because it has been made natural that you should be here."
    "How so?"
    The fox evaded the question, saying, "Free will is greatly controlled
by lust and base desire. The circumstances, carefully arranged, could be
made conducive to your coming to a certain place and performing certain
actions. You chose these things with your free will, yet you were not
fully free because the options available were restricted. A photograph
shows a scene, yet it shows one dimension. Conclusions formed from a
picture can be far more easily controlled than those formed from
observation by ones' own eyes."
    "I have a feeling that you're more than a forest animal."
    "Because that is the impression desired to achieve," replied the fox.
    "And what do you want of me?"
    The fox stood and turned its face away, towards the darkness of the
valley. "Follow me if you wish to witness the conclusion to your dream."
    As the fox stood watching, Steven lifted his left hand and took the
hat from his head. He brought his hand, hat in its grip, to his chest.
"The dream has a conclusion?" he asked softly.
    "All dreams end," replied the fox. "All except the final dream."
    "And what is the final dream?"
    The fox did not answer.
    "Lead the way," said Steven quietly.
    The fox bounded down the steep hillside, Steven following closely
behind. Together they descended into the darkness.
    And in an instant, the blackness was no more: they were running
through a field, which was the bottom of the valley. And in the
piercing moonlight, it could be seen that the field was filled with
beautiful flowers and perfect, green grass.
    The fox came to a stop and sat on its hindquarters, as it had
before, whilst Steven slowed more and more until he was standing still,
his lips parted. The fox's gaze was on him.
    Falling to his knees, Steven ran his hands through the grass. It
was perfect. The flowers moved in rippling motions as his fingers
touched them. And within seconds, tears fell amongst the blades of
grass - for Steven was crying.
    "This is the conclusion of your dream," said the fox in a strange
voice. "The moments you glimpsed, yet were unable to see in true
understanding."
    Steven was curled up, lying on his side. A rain began falling from
the sky. Yet there were no clouds. Raindrops splashed on Steven's coat,
his hair, dripping down his face in rivulets, mixing with his tears.
    "Why do I feel this way?" whispered Steven.
    "Are you really sure you wish to know?" asked the fox in that same,
strange voice.
    "Yes," murmured Steven, closing his eyes as the rain continued to
fall.
    "I said that you had blood on your hands," said the fox.
    "We are all guilty," said Steven. "No-one is innocent."
    The fox cocked its head slightly, the the rain running down its
neck. "The blood is fresh."
    There was a pause of six seconds, then the fox spoke again.
"The blood on your hands is not another's. It is your own."

    And that was where the dream came to an end.