The Frail Boy
The world itself was in a state of dismay, blue and shedding tears. Soft at first, but bound to grow heavier the more that time inevitably passed.
That day was one which was full for the young boy. He had waited for what felt like an eternity, an unbearable forever, if you will, to finally create what he'd proudly call his masterpiece. The night before, he was filled with a nearly uncontainable rage, like that of an animal, then shaking in anticipation for his frail body had completely denied the faint request of sleep. But night had passed and on an extraordinary morning, where he strangely felt more lively than any other day in his young life, he set off in a peaceful walk to the forest; feet stepping in a light, merrily way until he found the very bridge he'd discovered just months before. There, he'd create his design. A design he had carefully, thoughtfully drawn out in his head an uncountable number of times. The colors, cool and cold. The flow of the body, the flow of the dark waters embracing it all the way through with such a gentle touch. It'd be his first design, he was unbelievably excited you see, as it had nearly been nine years of planning for this very moment. Naturally, to finish off the design, is not to just have the vision lingering in the depths of your mind like some insignificant, discarded matter.
No, he'd waited an infuriatingly long amount of time for it to be treated as such. It would be a grave offense to his currently rapidly beating heart (he was giddy) and his brilliance. And this was his chance! To reveal to whatever witnesses, his pièce de résistance
The canvas was vast, never ending. More than enough. Beautiful it was, truly. The smooth stones sitting beneath the flowing rivers, the water clearer than fate. The sounds of nature; chirping birds and rustling leaves, the melodious symphony to accompany his work. So pleased with the perfect palette and the mood of it all, it felt more like a dream than what he found a boring reality for majority of his existence. He was grateful.
At last, he'd be able to say he understood what others found so beguiling of the monotone world. It was poetic, in its own strangely doleful way. And so he believed he had come to the conclusion that this was what "blossom" meant. And that was his last thought, before preparing himself.
"For fallen is the bird who's wings be too great. And as we make contact for one final time, Heaven and Hell embrace me now as I am, for I shall not wake again."
…
Does she want me gone? To grab me by the ear, drag me from my own bed, and down the sixteen steps, and toss me onto the rough grounds? Does she want to confront me of my absurd behavior, and scold me for my wrongdoings? Does she want me to speak up? Does she want me to banish myself from my own home? The very home which I so confidently believed to be our home, where'd we live each day basking in our own self-created bliss, and enjoy the fresh air on the very hill we first truly acknowledged our feelings towards one another?
"Or does she want a divorce…and be with that bastard, Viglianco? Or that imbecile that walked in on her…in the bath..."
It's these types of questions that Forrest would think about when the time calls for it…which seems to become more and more frequent these last few days. Well, it's certainly he who's thinking of this more than she is. She makes it clear, without even having to speak of it.
Still, today, he was trapped in his head in vexation, asking himself those very questions that he despised with every fiber of his being. "It's infuriating to me as I have an undying, almost beastly rage towards being questioned..." Especially when she was the one influencing yet another pandemonium in his head with ease, with her silent, despicable, and offensive questions. It's an interrogation at that point, where she so mercilessly stabs him in the vital centres of his body, trying to extract answers only to receive never ending tears that so stubbornly escape, as if to spite him. It is truly exhausting, being forced to be involved in a debate that no else can hear, but you seem to make such a ruckus of it that it matters naught where you are, who you're with or even that silent plead in your soul that only wants to be allowed rest; it violently refuses to silence itself.
But even so, blaming those who aren't deserving only comes right back at he who condemns the innocent, leaving him in a state of perpetual torment, humiliation, and heartbreak.
Which is why she is not the one to blame…
...
"Stop!"
The frail boy widened his eyes which, only seconds ago, were more than ready to finally close. His neck twisted slowly to face the vandal, his breathing so eerily quiet; one might mistake him for a phantom, or simply wave him off as some illusion. He was a dashing young boy, but something about him, despite his adorable young face, set off something in the others who saw him. More specifically his eyes. Dark, almost purple bags beneath them, the shadows making him look exhausted. And yes, while it fitted the way he felt, he knew it was unsettling for others. Not that he'd take it into consideration and do something about it…
"Why are you standing there?" The vandal wondered, hands folded over her heart with a…peculiar expression on her face. The frail boy narrowed his eyes at her, scanning her up and down for a few moments. The vandal, was really just a girl. Maybe a year or two older than he was. He tilted his head seeing her move her hand to tuck a loose curl of her silky hair behind her ear, a subtle shade of pink blossoming across her smooth, porcelain-like complexion. Was he embarrassing her? Suppose he was, he dismissed the thought as soon as it formed, and asked instead, "Why are you standing there?"
Noticing he mirrored her own question, her expression changed, flashing from concerned to a soft smile. Why? He didn't know. And that bothered him. But not enough to point it out.
"You should get down from there. You could slip and fall."
"You shouldn't go gallivanting around, breaking peaceful silences for people who don't want you."
"Well that's awfully harsh, don't you think? I only wanted-"
The frail boy groaned loudly, clearly expressing his annoyance to the girl who, fitting for what he first acknowledged her as, vandalized his masterpiece, stomping all over it and him with her loud heels.
"You've put me in a foul mood, young miss. And now, that you've so effortlessly made this more than perfect day oh so miserable, I must wait yet another."
"And why might that be, young sir?" The frail boy scoffed at those last two words. With a swift turn on the rail and a small leap, feeling once again his shoes lay flat against the bridge, he made his way back to the manor with a blank expression.
"Hey! Wait for me!"