Categories > Original > Drama
It's the greatest thing that's yet to have happened
Imagine knowing me.
It's the greatest thing you'd ever imagine,
but you'll never know until you're there;
No, you'll never know until you're there.
When I was young, I used to have this adorable little doll. It wasn’t mine, but don’t think I stole it. I don’t do things like steal. It was my sister’s. My mother said I could have it, since my sister had gotten a new doll. Psh. She didn’t fool me. I know for a fact that she fished it out of our neighbor's garbage. Heh. Somehow, all our lives seemed second hand.
There’s a certain amount of delicacy involved when it comes to describing lives. I was never too good with glass, but what the hell.
Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones... Mr Jones was a man of... questionable moral values. Yet no one seemed to ask why he was always late to work, why he was always late on returning home, why he always carried an umbrella with him, why he always had that damned smirk on his face. Heh. Mr. Jones. Undeserving of all he got, yet always received them with a smile. Then again, no one receives gifts with a frown. But I digress.
Mr. Jones was a murderer. Sorry for killing your climax, but quite simply, Mr. Jones killed people. He drove knives into their hearts and wound ropes around their thin necks. Why only thin necks, you ask? You see, Mr. Jones was a rather picky person in these matters. ‘Always extinguish the best’, he said. Well, didn’t exactly say it. He didn’t have to. You just have to read between the chalk lines.
What is it that makes a man? How do you know when you've reached your full potential? These were the questions that haunted Mr Jones. Could you truly spend your entire life watching the wind and not be blown away by it? When do you give in and sprout wings to fly? Perhaps Mr Jones was smarter than us. We're all waiting for that one particular train when we don't know where we're going. It's go to 'feel right'. Mr Jones never trusted his feelings. he knew no matter how much he felt, his appetite would remain forever insatiable. He caught the first train he saw for he knew it would go someplace, woke to the first sunbeam because he knew there would be another one tomorrow, and drunk till the very last drop of the bottle, for there were always more on the shelves. You might say he was living his life to the fullest, but he was fulfilling his life's purpose, by attempting to discover what the hell it was in the first place.
Mr Jones killed for fun. He didn't kill to save society, to destroy the evil in this world or for some greater good. Mr Jones killed because to kill is to play God. Why did he just become a doctor, you ask? Well, I'd say half the fun is not getting caught. You can't really hide with a name tag around your neck and a diploma on your wall.
You get to play God only a few times in your life. Unless you're a parent. Mr Jones never fell in love. He wasn't waiting for it either. He knew it wouldn't come. He knew he could never wake up next to someone, wrap his arms around her waist, pull her close, and lose all sense of time and space. Mr Jones was an extreme realist. he went to sleep because the sun would rise again tomorrow, he ate because he knew he'd be hungry later, he found stability and pleasure in facts. He dictated over his domain, however small it was, and for however long is lasted. And those few precious moments, when his hands were soaked in the blood of the unknown and his ears filled with the cries of the helpless, Mr Jones was God. And when you're God, you make the facts. He killed because he knew they'd die. And the assurance of that fact sent him over the moon. Petty, petty Mr Jones.
But there was the case of one Mrs Kimple. One hand around her pretty little neck, gashes on her forearms, bruises on her legs, a knife raised over her heart and he proclaimed, "Never die, I'll never die."
Never die? Now how could Mr Jones let that be? He killed because he knew they'd die, and here was Mrs Kimple, seconds away from death and denying the simple, clear and most certain fact that she was going to die. Her life was his now, and she dared to melt his iron fist with her insolent cries of denial?
The blade stopped centimeters above her ticking heart, stopping the countdown instantly in her head. The anger that seeped through Mr Jones' coal black eyes should have surely been enough to force that blade right through her, piercing her chest and tearing open her already bleeding heart. Instead he grabbed her shoulders, letting the sharp metal fall to the floor, making a considerably large, resounding noise in contrast to the short, loud breaths she took. Life and death looked at each other for the first time, taking in each others aura, absorbing each others vibes.
Killer and victim, predator and prey, God and Eve... Or Adam and Eve? What were they really looking at?
No one's innocent. Mr Kimple was no angel. She had her share of sins, her closet full of skeletons. She just never invited anyone into her bedroom, not even Mr Kimple. Oh no. Mr Kimple slept downstairs. No, not the basement. Think inside the box. A rectangular box, to be exact. Mrs Kimple had dug through the mud that surrounded his coffin, her mind unable to absorb facts. If you look under her fingernails, Mr Kimple was still alive. She kept him alive with those three letters in front of her name, and those smudged paintings, splattered across the canvas of her mind with empty bottles and filled ashtrays. It was Mr Kimple's fault she hadn't gone back to work, or answered her phone or locked her front door that night. It was thoroughly Mr Kimple's fault that she was looking Death in the eye, her mind still unable to absorb facts. How could she die when her beloved was still alive? She would never die unless she died with him, and that was a fact. Taking those facts into account, Mrs Kimple would never die, leaving Mr Jones in quite a dilemma.
Imagine knowing me.
It's the greatest thing you'd ever imagine,
but you'll never know until you're there;
No, you'll never know until you're there.
When I was young, I used to have this adorable little doll. It wasn’t mine, but don’t think I stole it. I don’t do things like steal. It was my sister’s. My mother said I could have it, since my sister had gotten a new doll. Psh. She didn’t fool me. I know for a fact that she fished it out of our neighbor's garbage. Heh. Somehow, all our lives seemed second hand.
There’s a certain amount of delicacy involved when it comes to describing lives. I was never too good with glass, but what the hell.
Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones... Mr Jones was a man of... questionable moral values. Yet no one seemed to ask why he was always late to work, why he was always late on returning home, why he always carried an umbrella with him, why he always had that damned smirk on his face. Heh. Mr. Jones. Undeserving of all he got, yet always received them with a smile. Then again, no one receives gifts with a frown. But I digress.
Mr. Jones was a murderer. Sorry for killing your climax, but quite simply, Mr. Jones killed people. He drove knives into their hearts and wound ropes around their thin necks. Why only thin necks, you ask? You see, Mr. Jones was a rather picky person in these matters. ‘Always extinguish the best’, he said. Well, didn’t exactly say it. He didn’t have to. You just have to read between the chalk lines.
What is it that makes a man? How do you know when you've reached your full potential? These were the questions that haunted Mr Jones. Could you truly spend your entire life watching the wind and not be blown away by it? When do you give in and sprout wings to fly? Perhaps Mr Jones was smarter than us. We're all waiting for that one particular train when we don't know where we're going. It's go to 'feel right'. Mr Jones never trusted his feelings. he knew no matter how much he felt, his appetite would remain forever insatiable. He caught the first train he saw for he knew it would go someplace, woke to the first sunbeam because he knew there would be another one tomorrow, and drunk till the very last drop of the bottle, for there were always more on the shelves. You might say he was living his life to the fullest, but he was fulfilling his life's purpose, by attempting to discover what the hell it was in the first place.
Mr Jones killed for fun. He didn't kill to save society, to destroy the evil in this world or for some greater good. Mr Jones killed because to kill is to play God. Why did he just become a doctor, you ask? Well, I'd say half the fun is not getting caught. You can't really hide with a name tag around your neck and a diploma on your wall.
You get to play God only a few times in your life. Unless you're a parent. Mr Jones never fell in love. He wasn't waiting for it either. He knew it wouldn't come. He knew he could never wake up next to someone, wrap his arms around her waist, pull her close, and lose all sense of time and space. Mr Jones was an extreme realist. he went to sleep because the sun would rise again tomorrow, he ate because he knew he'd be hungry later, he found stability and pleasure in facts. He dictated over his domain, however small it was, and for however long is lasted. And those few precious moments, when his hands were soaked in the blood of the unknown and his ears filled with the cries of the helpless, Mr Jones was God. And when you're God, you make the facts. He killed because he knew they'd die. And the assurance of that fact sent him over the moon. Petty, petty Mr Jones.
But there was the case of one Mrs Kimple. One hand around her pretty little neck, gashes on her forearms, bruises on her legs, a knife raised over her heart and he proclaimed, "Never die, I'll never die."
Never die? Now how could Mr Jones let that be? He killed because he knew they'd die, and here was Mrs Kimple, seconds away from death and denying the simple, clear and most certain fact that she was going to die. Her life was his now, and she dared to melt his iron fist with her insolent cries of denial?
The blade stopped centimeters above her ticking heart, stopping the countdown instantly in her head. The anger that seeped through Mr Jones' coal black eyes should have surely been enough to force that blade right through her, piercing her chest and tearing open her already bleeding heart. Instead he grabbed her shoulders, letting the sharp metal fall to the floor, making a considerably large, resounding noise in contrast to the short, loud breaths she took. Life and death looked at each other for the first time, taking in each others aura, absorbing each others vibes.
Killer and victim, predator and prey, God and Eve... Or Adam and Eve? What were they really looking at?
No one's innocent. Mr Kimple was no angel. She had her share of sins, her closet full of skeletons. She just never invited anyone into her bedroom, not even Mr Kimple. Oh no. Mr Kimple slept downstairs. No, not the basement. Think inside the box. A rectangular box, to be exact. Mrs Kimple had dug through the mud that surrounded his coffin, her mind unable to absorb facts. If you look under her fingernails, Mr Kimple was still alive. She kept him alive with those three letters in front of her name, and those smudged paintings, splattered across the canvas of her mind with empty bottles and filled ashtrays. It was Mr Kimple's fault she hadn't gone back to work, or answered her phone or locked her front door that night. It was thoroughly Mr Kimple's fault that she was looking Death in the eye, her mind still unable to absorb facts. How could she die when her beloved was still alive? She would never die unless she died with him, and that was a fact. Taking those facts into account, Mrs Kimple would never die, leaving Mr Jones in quite a dilemma.
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