Fragments of Fiction is a story that I have been working on, more off recently.
There was a time when I used to love seeing a movie with a happy ending. There was something very satisfying about watching the hero/heroine miraculously overcome some incredible challenge and ride off into the sunset.
It was very “Norman Rockwellish.” It just fit the image of how I thought life should be. Life was always going to throw out a few hurdles to get beyond, but why shouldn’t I be able to glide over them and land ever so softly on the far side.
But time has a way of teaching you that you aren’t Baryshnikov. You can’t pretend to be Michael Jordan and soar over the problems of the world below. Sometimes you slipped and instead of soaring you flew face first into the hurdle. It is a good reality check, having the breath knocked out of you.
You can call me a pessimist, but what I really learned was that most of the time things didn’t work out for the hero. He got there too late to save the girl. In spite of his best efforts to hold on she slipped out of his grasp and went tumbling into the abyss below. It was reality and so was the knowledge that the last thing he heard from her lips was a scream of terror. The last look in her eyes was the shock she felt that he just hadn’t come through.
The hero had failed.
I know. I have a dark side that comes out. I wasn’t always this way. I said it before. I liked happy endings. I really did. But the naivete was beaten out of me and now I know better.
I have walked in a world of darkness for more years than I care to remember. Some days are better than others. Sometimes when I feel the sun beat down upon my back I forget about the past and for a moment I feel hope.
I hate it. I hate feeling like I have a chance to get back what I lost because it forces me to relive losing it all. It feels like a dagger has been shoved into my back and I can’t quite reach it. It burns. It burns. It burns.
Sometimes the only way that I can make the burning go away is to pound on my heavy bag. Pop, pop, pop, pop…I try to stay focused and try to find a rhythm but more often than not I just start hammering the bag. With every swing I try to pound it into sand.
It helps… a little.
Somewhere there is a person inside me who is screaming in anger and frustration, or maybe that roaring noise I hear is not in mind. Maybe it really is me.