Post by kevin on Nov 24, 2010 11:56:56 GMT -5
He walks among the abandon ruins of the factory. His steps are slow and deliberate. From afar one would regard his pace as a person among grave stones. He pauses here and there and regards some old machine or pile of debris. He continues his walk. There seems to be no goal or direction; he is pulled or pushed by forces unseen.
He squads near a small pile of trash and his dirty hands begin to meticulously sift. What is it that gives him pause? A name tag half buried in the trash of newspapers. He studies the name that emerges from years of grime, runs his fingers across it. It is as if the sight of the name must have a feel or texture. A sound disturbs him from the tag.
A woman screams, a struggle, men’s voice low and threatening. The woman’s cries are suddenly silenced with a loud slap. The men’s voices take a triumphant tone. He moves with slow determination through the factory, the sounds of interloper guiding him. His pace quickens, his anger rises. In a long forgotten office he discovers them, three men, and a woman. The woman is laying on her back. She is still as if asleep. Two men are goading the third and youngest as he begins to pull down his pants. He watches. He becomes angry at their presence. They should not be here. They trespass.
“You should not be here. These are my halls.” His voice is clear and strong, it betrays his apparent age.
The men are startled, the youngest fumbles to pull up his pants. The strongest man moves toward the old bum, with violence in his eyes. “Shut the fuck up old man!”
The second man, “Fuck him up!”
The strong one reaches out, his hand finds nothing but empty space. The bum has shifted away from his grasp. Without looking the bum finds within reach an old phone. With it firmly in his grasp the bum slams it across the face of his attacker. The phone and face shatter, blood, teeth, and electronics scatter across the far wall. Fear overwhelms the other two men, one goes for a hidden weapon, the other stumbles over a filing cabinet drawer his pants still not up. The bum drops the shattered bloody phone.
The second man in fear and rage charges the bum, the weapon is a knife. As before the second man’s swings find empty air as the bum shifts effortlessly away from each attack. The bum reaches out without looking finding a calendar hang on the wall, which the hurls at the face of his attacker. Distracted the second man is horrified to feel the bum strip the knife from his hand. The calendar blinded him. The bum swings the knife driving it through the calendar and the temple of the second man. The man, the knife, and the calendar drop to the ground.
The young man is crying, pleading, begging. The bum moves slowly toward him oblivious to the words. “Who are you?” pleads the youth.
The bum pauses as if struck. He thinks through a thousand lifetimes of memories yet not one name comes to his mind. Who am I he wonders. Pain and loss is all he can recall. The faces of thousands of his loved one flash before him; his wives, lovers, and children. All of them lost and forgotten. He regards the scared boy before him, “I am the Lord of the forgotten, master of the lost, Noble of abandonment.” The bum’s voice is strong and powerful, full of majesty.
The boy’s tears don’t move the bum’s heart. The Noble of the Abandoned reaches for the boy’s throat. “Your life is gone. None will look for you, none will remember you, no one will care about your disappearance. You are lost, forgotten, abandoned.” The boy’s neck was broken before the bum finished.
The bum turned from the dead boy toward the woman. She was gone. He thought to give chase, but he didn’t. He longed that she would remember him at least for the night before reality stripped her of her memory.
He turned back into the abandoned factory; he’d already forgotten the three men he killed; he’d forgotten the name tag that he came here searching for; he had already forgotten the girl.
She didn’t forget him.
He squads near a small pile of trash and his dirty hands begin to meticulously sift. What is it that gives him pause? A name tag half buried in the trash of newspapers. He studies the name that emerges from years of grime, runs his fingers across it. It is as if the sight of the name must have a feel or texture. A sound disturbs him from the tag.
A woman screams, a struggle, men’s voice low and threatening. The woman’s cries are suddenly silenced with a loud slap. The men’s voices take a triumphant tone. He moves with slow determination through the factory, the sounds of interloper guiding him. His pace quickens, his anger rises. In a long forgotten office he discovers them, three men, and a woman. The woman is laying on her back. She is still as if asleep. Two men are goading the third and youngest as he begins to pull down his pants. He watches. He becomes angry at their presence. They should not be here. They trespass.
“You should not be here. These are my halls.” His voice is clear and strong, it betrays his apparent age.
The men are startled, the youngest fumbles to pull up his pants. The strongest man moves toward the old bum, with violence in his eyes. “Shut the fuck up old man!”
The second man, “Fuck him up!”
The strong one reaches out, his hand finds nothing but empty space. The bum has shifted away from his grasp. Without looking the bum finds within reach an old phone. With it firmly in his grasp the bum slams it across the face of his attacker. The phone and face shatter, blood, teeth, and electronics scatter across the far wall. Fear overwhelms the other two men, one goes for a hidden weapon, the other stumbles over a filing cabinet drawer his pants still not up. The bum drops the shattered bloody phone.
The second man in fear and rage charges the bum, the weapon is a knife. As before the second man’s swings find empty air as the bum shifts effortlessly away from each attack. The bum reaches out without looking finding a calendar hang on the wall, which the hurls at the face of his attacker. Distracted the second man is horrified to feel the bum strip the knife from his hand. The calendar blinded him. The bum swings the knife driving it through the calendar and the temple of the second man. The man, the knife, and the calendar drop to the ground.
The young man is crying, pleading, begging. The bum moves slowly toward him oblivious to the words. “Who are you?” pleads the youth.
The bum pauses as if struck. He thinks through a thousand lifetimes of memories yet not one name comes to his mind. Who am I he wonders. Pain and loss is all he can recall. The faces of thousands of his loved one flash before him; his wives, lovers, and children. All of them lost and forgotten. He regards the scared boy before him, “I am the Lord of the forgotten, master of the lost, Noble of abandonment.” The bum’s voice is strong and powerful, full of majesty.
The boy’s tears don’t move the bum’s heart. The Noble of the Abandoned reaches for the boy’s throat. “Your life is gone. None will look for you, none will remember you, no one will care about your disappearance. You are lost, forgotten, abandoned.” The boy’s neck was broken before the bum finished.
The bum turned from the dead boy toward the woman. She was gone. He thought to give chase, but he didn’t. He longed that she would remember him at least for the night before reality stripped her of her memory.
He turned back into the abandoned factory; he’d already forgotten the three men he killed; he’d forgotten the name tag that he came here searching for; he had already forgotten the girl.
She didn’t forget him.
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