|
|
|
Jac Weimer is a novice writer at best; she has only a few short stories under her belt that generally tend to be of a darker nature. Upon attending Southeastern Louisiana University in the fall of ’08, she has ambitions of majoring in English. Apples by Jac Weimer
Upon gazing at the lifeless being lying trapped inside a velvet- and satin-lined box, he felt intrinsically laden with the actions contrived in his lifetime. There was little remorse felt; however, he was painfully aware of how simply unaware he had been through his life. It was a life filled with robotic undertakings with no emotions attached. The life that had once filled his body had somehow left, somehow gone to a place where he was unable to retrieve it.
He frowned at the body. It was not peaceful or placid. Dead bodies never looked "at rest." They looked dead, plainly and simply. After deciding that he had taken his last long look at the girl, he decided to take a seat in a nearby pew where the family was generally seated. He was the only solitary soul sitting silently.
He was tired physically. Planning a funeral for a girl he hardly knew was no easy task, but no one was left to plan such post-life arrangements for the girl. Truly he had very little knowledge of his own daughter; he only discovered her existence less than a year ago upon her own mother's quite untimely death. It was always a mystery to him how life came into existence after a casual outing and a few strong drinks; such was the case with him and the girl's mother.
The past year had been exceedingly difficult for him. Learning of a being that he had created nearly sixteen years ago and suddenly being responsible for that being, a being that wanted nothing to do with him, was not the easiest task. Her mother had been a nurse, and after a long shift, she was driving home sometime past midnight, and a drunk driver, not much older than her own daughter, killed her in a head-on collision. The loss had deeply disturbed young Mallory, and to help her cope, she was immediately put in counseling, but it did little good for the girl. He was unaware if Mallory was reclusive before the tragedy, but she certainly was now. The friends she had stopped calling. With no one to turn to she withdrew further.
The less contact she had with her former world, the more withdrawn she became. One night, after she hadn't returned from school for hours, her father became worried. Where was that pathetic creature that occupied space in his home? He frantically searched the house. Terror gripped him and shook him to his very core just before he entered the girl's room. Instinctively, he knew what he would find.
Her body was not peaceful or placid. It looked deceased and pained. The look on her face was as if the life had rushed out of her body and had no time to take proper precautions before leaving.
He nearly thought his heart had stopped. This being, a thing he had created, was no more. Just this morning she was eating an apple, sitting rather sanguinely, pensively plaintive. He walked up to her, touched her skin. The warmth caused by blood pulsing through a body had long passed. There was nothing he could do. An ambulance was summoned anyway. Her time of death was recorded as several hours before. She hadn't even gone to school. A single note was found:
"Girl dies. Father made infamous."
This single solitary written line of text shook him so profoundly that he was unable to sleep for nights. Thinking of it overpowered his thoughts and his sleepless mind reflected upon it listlessly. What was this prophecy from the dead that his estranged daughter had made? He would know the outcome of this grim line soon enough.
Long nights of little sleep made twisted thoughts tickle tinkering whims in his taut brain. How had he existed for the last few months with this being without her having at least some kind of an impact upon him?
He gazed simply at Mallory's coffin. There were few in the church: a teacher or two, a few classmates. It was a dreary place to be. Oftentimes, fond memories of mirth and good things can be recollected at such gatherings in remembrance of the dearly departed, but few actually knew the reclusive girl.
He pictured his own funeral. Who would come? Would it be such a sorry sight? What would be said? Would there be whispers at his funeral, just as there were presently at his own daughter's? Questions flashed before him as if his entire brain was before a strobe light. The answers, to his distress, did not flash so readily.
His body grew tired of sitting; the nervous energy he felt consumed him, so he discretely removed himself from his pew to amble around the church. He passed images and icons of those passed long ago, assumed to be in a state of perpetual happiness that he was not certain he even believed in. The Virgin looked down upon him from her permanent fixture on a stained glass window. A pained expression lay perfectly placed over her visage, and he was not fond of it. Something was overtly wretched in that face. Continuing to look at the image made him so upset that he was forced to start walking about the church again.
His thoughts once again drifted to a darker nature. If he were to drop dead, just now, how would anyone be affected? Would Mike, his mailman, come to his funeral? Would Jeff, his best friend, be the police escort? Who would give his eulogy? Had his life had a profound enough impact on anyone? Questions. Answers seemed as if they should be easily attainable, but danced around him in a daunting, menacing way.
His thoughts quickened, and he continued on his journey to eventual unattainable enlightenment. Soon, he chanced upon a flight of stairs, and being curious, he wanted to see what the upstairs balcony looked like. The balcony had not been used in years. Dust formed a film over nearly every object present.
He walked to the edge of the balcony and gazed at the scene below. The priest was readying himself for the mass. A few people he didn't know were conversing with one another about things left to hushed whispers and stolen glances. Would any of the people present today be with him on his death bed? How would his life come to a conclusion? Would some other human aid him in his demise? What of this life? Was it as useless and nonsensical as he had always interpreted it to be? Or was there an afterlife of some kind? What form of deity, if it existed, would determine his alleged soul's fate?
Thoughts filled his head, throbbing in his mind, melting away any clear form of thought pattern. He looked directly down. Something in his brain teased and taunted him.
Just do it. Then you will know.
He leaned farther over the banister. The pattering of footsteps climbing to the top of the stairs could be heard. He was sure they were after him now. They didn't want him to know, oh, but he had to! The footsteps were quickening. Someone shouted and pointed. All eyes were on him.
NOW, you fool!
And he listened. The cryptic prophecy came true. The thoughts of the whisperers and stolen glance takers were no longer on the girl lying trapped in her box; they were turned to something new.
Whether he was made infamous by choice or by folly remains to be seen, but it has been said that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
THE END Jac Weimer © 2008 |