I Never Meant to Be so Cliche
Pictures
My breathing betrayed me as I started to suck in the oxygen at a rapid pace. This couldn't be happening. Why didn't I know about this? My own mind was playing tricks on me. Why would it want to? Did I offend it one day, and it was now spitting out those cruel answers? This didn't make sense!
I screwed my hands into my hair, think, praying to someone, anyone who would listen to me for a second of their busy days to help me. I never needed help more than at this moment. My sanity was like sand in my hand. I tried to grip it, but it just seeped out quicker. I watched each grain of my world fall. I watched each fragile part shatter into a million pieces. There was nothing for me to do. There was nothing I could do. I was just a broke down boy who was confused, a boy who discovered a world he never should have known.
"Max, calm down." Ronnie said, placing a hand on my shoulder. I pushed it away, throwing myself away from him. His presence was consuming, all consuming. It plagued my mind, and the more I tried to forget he was here, the more it really showed him.
Things like this don't happen to people like me. I was supposed to die young. I was supposed to live an uneventful life and die alone in my bed one night where no one would worry about me until the horrific smell of my decomposing body became too much for the neighborhood cat. The cat would keel over near my home, and when people would come to rescue it, they would see me. Those were the types of the things that needed to happen. I wasn't the bullet that shot through the air. I was the shell that made little impact, which was ultimately casted away in the end.
"Max, you need to breathe." Ronnie said slowly. He was in front of me now. Why was he in front of me? I wanted him to go. I wanted him to leave with the rest of these painful thoughts. Mimic monsters? Brothers? Relationships? I didn't know about these. I never did these things. I'm Max Green. I'm not even eighteen years old. I'm an only child. The most interesting thing to happen to me was I once fell down the stairs at school at broke my wrist. I had contemplated killing myself after that terrible night that was never to be spoken about. That was who I was. I was not this. I will never be this.
"Max." He repeated. His hands rested on my shoulders. They didn't feel heavy. They didn't feel like weights that were holding me down. What were they? They felt like feathers, reassuring, light, given me the choice to float away if I wished.
"Max, you wanted those answers. You now have to deal with them." He said.
That doesn't make sense. I'm seventeen. I don't have friends. I have never talked to you before however long this has been. I signed quickly. He didn't even look at my hands. Did he ever look at me hands?
"No, Max," he said. "You are more than one hundred years old. You have had many friends. You and I have known each other for over sixty years."
That's not possible.
He sighed, walking behind me and opening a cabinet. He dusted off a book that seemed to be sitting there for years. It was antique, old, original. Something that seemed to be of either no value to him or immense value. Ronnie ran his fingers over the spine in a way that showed me my answer. It was a book, just a book. It held knowledge, pictures, lives of characters that would never see the real world. What made this one so important to him? What value did it have on his?
"Sit down." He said, motioning for the couch. "I had hoped you would have just believed me, and I wouldn't have to show you this."
He glanced solemnly at the broken pages before handing it to my now sitting form. I held it in my hands, feeling the weight of it, the intense weight of it. There was something that came off of this book, a feeling I didn't understand. I had seen it before. It was familiar.
I opened it up to see a picture of a family. They looked angry. The mother was holding the young child in her hand, while the bigger one clung to the father's leg. The picture itself was aged. I could tell it was much older than any other picture I held in my hands. When the pictures flipped, the children grew larger and larger until they were faces that I recognized. One of them looked like me, but older, much older. The other was me. "Me" and the other boy were standing in front of a small home surrounded my crops, but in the next page, we were in the city. The pictures became newer looking, and each had more emotion of happiness than the last. The other boy stopped appearing in pictures and was replaced by a blonde man who was short and seemed tan, but you couldn't really tell in black in white. But, then they turned into color, and he was in fact tan. He left as well, and then there was only me for a while, until one picture came up.
My face was not present in this still image. No, it wasn't me. It was Ronnie. There was a crowd of people with him in the back. He was staring directly at the camera with a glass of what appeared to be wine in his hands, formal attire draped on his body. There was no emotion in his face, but in his eyes it was like he was daring the person with the camera to come over, daring them to meet the dark stranger.
It was apparent that the camera man, me, did go over to say hello because the next picture was of him handing me flowers. The pictures slowly grew into something more dangerous feeling. Each picture our bodies moved a little closer, our limbs a little more intertwined. Some of them with me laughing and him kissing me. Some of me jumping onto him. We seemed like more than what we were now, so much more. The last one was of two silhouettes dancing in a room of candles. I could tell that the version of me in the picture was holding onto him like there was no chance of him surviving without him.
"That was the night you had agreed to marry me." Ronnie said from beside me. His eyes were glossed over like he was about to cry. Why would he want to cry? It seemed like this life wasn't a bad one. The pictures seemed so happy, like a child running after a butterfly. There was nothing wrong with that was there?
What happened to me? I asked not really knowing if I wanted the answer or not.
"Well," he said, taking a shaky breath. "Three days after that picture was taken, you never came home. I waited for one day, before I went searching for you. You aren't the type to just leave, not after that. After weeks, months, of searching I came to a lead that told me a group of rogues took you because they knew you were part of the rebellion. They didn't like the rebellion because the Master had given them certain privileges that were certain to go away when we over threw him. One of them was a powerful warlock that cast a spell on you. I don't know how he did it, but he gave the entire community memories of you that weren't there before. he made your parents think they raised you. He erased your memory of our world and gave ones that matched your 'parents'. They knew . . . they knew that if they took you away from me . . . I would do anything to get you back, but I couldn’t get you back. You never came back." His voice was cracking, and he placed his face in his hands.
I didn't want to see him like this. He shouldn't be like this. He was Ronnie. He was strong. He was powerful. "Please, don't cry." I whispered to him, placing my hand on his shoulder. "Please."
I screwed my hands into my hair, think, praying to someone, anyone who would listen to me for a second of their busy days to help me. I never needed help more than at this moment. My sanity was like sand in my hand. I tried to grip it, but it just seeped out quicker. I watched each grain of my world fall. I watched each fragile part shatter into a million pieces. There was nothing for me to do. There was nothing I could do. I was just a broke down boy who was confused, a boy who discovered a world he never should have known.
"Max, calm down." Ronnie said, placing a hand on my shoulder. I pushed it away, throwing myself away from him. His presence was consuming, all consuming. It plagued my mind, and the more I tried to forget he was here, the more it really showed him.
Things like this don't happen to people like me. I was supposed to die young. I was supposed to live an uneventful life and die alone in my bed one night where no one would worry about me until the horrific smell of my decomposing body became too much for the neighborhood cat. The cat would keel over near my home, and when people would come to rescue it, they would see me. Those were the types of the things that needed to happen. I wasn't the bullet that shot through the air. I was the shell that made little impact, which was ultimately casted away in the end.
"Max, you need to breathe." Ronnie said slowly. He was in front of me now. Why was he in front of me? I wanted him to go. I wanted him to leave with the rest of these painful thoughts. Mimic monsters? Brothers? Relationships? I didn't know about these. I never did these things. I'm Max Green. I'm not even eighteen years old. I'm an only child. The most interesting thing to happen to me was I once fell down the stairs at school at broke my wrist. I had contemplated killing myself after that terrible night that was never to be spoken about. That was who I was. I was not this. I will never be this.
"Max." He repeated. His hands rested on my shoulders. They didn't feel heavy. They didn't feel like weights that were holding me down. What were they? They felt like feathers, reassuring, light, given me the choice to float away if I wished.
"Max, you wanted those answers. You now have to deal with them." He said.
That doesn't make sense. I'm seventeen. I don't have friends. I have never talked to you before however long this has been. I signed quickly. He didn't even look at my hands. Did he ever look at me hands?
"No, Max," he said. "You are more than one hundred years old. You have had many friends. You and I have known each other for over sixty years."
That's not possible.
He sighed, walking behind me and opening a cabinet. He dusted off a book that seemed to be sitting there for years. It was antique, old, original. Something that seemed to be of either no value to him or immense value. Ronnie ran his fingers over the spine in a way that showed me my answer. It was a book, just a book. It held knowledge, pictures, lives of characters that would never see the real world. What made this one so important to him? What value did it have on his?
"Sit down." He said, motioning for the couch. "I had hoped you would have just believed me, and I wouldn't have to show you this."
He glanced solemnly at the broken pages before handing it to my now sitting form. I held it in my hands, feeling the weight of it, the intense weight of it. There was something that came off of this book, a feeling I didn't understand. I had seen it before. It was familiar.
I opened it up to see a picture of a family. They looked angry. The mother was holding the young child in her hand, while the bigger one clung to the father's leg. The picture itself was aged. I could tell it was much older than any other picture I held in my hands. When the pictures flipped, the children grew larger and larger until they were faces that I recognized. One of them looked like me, but older, much older. The other was me. "Me" and the other boy were standing in front of a small home surrounded my crops, but in the next page, we were in the city. The pictures became newer looking, and each had more emotion of happiness than the last. The other boy stopped appearing in pictures and was replaced by a blonde man who was short and seemed tan, but you couldn't really tell in black in white. But, then they turned into color, and he was in fact tan. He left as well, and then there was only me for a while, until one picture came up.
My face was not present in this still image. No, it wasn't me. It was Ronnie. There was a crowd of people with him in the back. He was staring directly at the camera with a glass of what appeared to be wine in his hands, formal attire draped on his body. There was no emotion in his face, but in his eyes it was like he was daring the person with the camera to come over, daring them to meet the dark stranger.
It was apparent that the camera man, me, did go over to say hello because the next picture was of him handing me flowers. The pictures slowly grew into something more dangerous feeling. Each picture our bodies moved a little closer, our limbs a little more intertwined. Some of them with me laughing and him kissing me. Some of me jumping onto him. We seemed like more than what we were now, so much more. The last one was of two silhouettes dancing in a room of candles. I could tell that the version of me in the picture was holding onto him like there was no chance of him surviving without him.
"That was the night you had agreed to marry me." Ronnie said from beside me. His eyes were glossed over like he was about to cry. Why would he want to cry? It seemed like this life wasn't a bad one. The pictures seemed so happy, like a child running after a butterfly. There was nothing wrong with that was there?
What happened to me? I asked not really knowing if I wanted the answer or not.
"Well," he said, taking a shaky breath. "Three days after that picture was taken, you never came home. I waited for one day, before I went searching for you. You aren't the type to just leave, not after that. After weeks, months, of searching I came to a lead that told me a group of rogues took you because they knew you were part of the rebellion. They didn't like the rebellion because the Master had given them certain privileges that were certain to go away when we over threw him. One of them was a powerful warlock that cast a spell on you. I don't know how he did it, but he gave the entire community memories of you that weren't there before. he made your parents think they raised you. He erased your memory of our world and gave ones that matched your 'parents'. They knew . . . they knew that if they took you away from me . . . I would do anything to get you back, but I couldn’t get you back. You never came back." His voice was cracking, and he placed his face in his hands.
I didn't want to see him like this. He shouldn't be like this. He was Ronnie. He was strong. He was powerful. "Please, don't cry." I whispered to him, placing my hand on his shoulder. "Please."