Fantasy or fantasy’s

As individuals, we hold the pen and paper. We hold it to victory, in hope of a stroke of luck that may come up and pat us on the back. We crave for many events to occur and you may or may not get that chance. You see it is all about opportunities. And that first opportunity I got was one you’d never get.

If I told you, you’d think I was mad. Delusional. Living a fantasy life. However I built my fantasy life through bloody fists, every single day after school. They’d approach me, in a huddle or flock. They’d hold onto their glassy, hooded eyes and surround me. The frost numbs my skin as the temperature dips below the hidden warmth that tries to comfort many cold hearted people. One blow after another, smirking, laughing. More and more people surround, trying to kick them off but that only drives the very few group of samaritans away. The pressure escalates and soon I decided to not even venture outside.

Heart thudding and pounding, I shuddered at the sudden thought. You’d think that at the age of 19, you’d overcome these torturing visions or dreams but they don’t disappear. They can’t. Not when they are embedded in your soul. Your future. It signals at you, every second of your life wasted on worrying. Then you look back at the times when you could have stood up; nah, there was no opportunity anyway. Sliding the thoughts away, I stuck my nose in my book. It didn’t work. Why couldn’t I distract myself?

Then I thought about Marcus, he was the only boy that loved me. He helped me through the darkest days, until, like everyone else, he drifted away from me.

My brain ticks constantly, my eyes flutter continuously, I can’t change my thoughts, or could I? Remembering a famous quote by Shakespeare, I announced it. I announced it to my brain and hopefully it wouldn’t be dragged out from my (too generous) ear. ‘God hath given you one face, and you make yourself another’.

Suddenly the pieces fit together perfectly, no rough edges...nothing. The rubble on the floor caged open as it tried to swallow me in, I felt the weight of my tensions lift off and vanish and so did my memory. All existence was dripped out of my soul, mind, body and heart. What sat there was oozing unrequited love that washed over my cleansing body. Darkness struck me. There I lay, like in a horror movie but no horror, only an unknown yet written path.

Awakening from unconsciousness, I was still standing, this was weird and mysterious. It was like the house’s feelings and my new story life was written in my brain. My past had been rewritten.

The house had become aware of itself, of the history that echoed within the walls. Somewhere within, mixed with the pain, there was some sort of comfort that sprang up for some people. The house shivered, braveness was a key to have when in the darkest of times. Abandoned yet it was looked over at from a few miles or so. Summer was the only time it could grow but Winter was its enemy. It decayed from there. Peace was found in violence and there was no point in trying to find warmth when surrounded by many familiar, harsh faces. It would get kicked down, punched down, lured away by it’s owner. These false facts that we have crammed in our heads will one day take revenge on us. But not just on ourselves, on the people, environment and living things revolving around us.

Opening the door to my bedroom, everything had been repositioned, everything. I could be dreaming but deep down, in the pits of my despair, I knew the truth, the covers came off of the anaesthetised truth. The whole room had been caked with dust, cobwebs had been built with determination and ruling over other civilisations. The dampness didn't hover, it’s particles stood as firm as a solid block. A block as big as the room, with no fresh air or oxygen to breathe. Stood facing me was a ghastly, ghostly-like figure. His cheekbones intensified, weakness and brittle soreness stood over him, a power in which he couldn’t resist.

He stared at me, he was transparent, I knew this as my arm floated through his body. He spoke with seriousness and commitment in being here. The man had blonde hair which shone even in the dimmest of lights. He wore the fanciest, upperclass clothes. As I peered closer and faced the man, sudden realisation splashed across my face. The man was me. How was that Marcus. He gazed wistfully at me.

I spoke first,“Why should one spend years in loving someone that cheats on them, lies to their faces and hurts them physically every moment of their life?”

I didn’t want to speak, I couldn’t. But my hands spoke for me, I don’t know how but it just did. I grabbed his hands and shook him, I punched him continuously. One throw was what had been planned, but anger sizzled over me, he lay across the floor. Curled up on the floor he spluttered out cries and sorry. But that was the end I couldn’t, I didn’t have the power. Not like anyone needed me. Nobody. Useless. No more.

A fantasy or fantasy's?