Status: In development!
A Goddamn Moskal
The Janitor.
It wasn’t until the cold embrace of a decaying body that he realized his intent. Up until that point his mind was but a blur. A state of mind where he exists somewhere else, where his body is in full control of itself. Riding along a lumbering beast, waiting for the time where his special mindset and skill will come into play.
The psychology of someone in chains always boggled his mind as he observed his canvas. Some in agony, some in despair, some mad and others persuasive. People struggling to collect the remnants of their past, diving further and further into memories long gone in actions forgotten. They twitch and moan, struggling to keep hold of the past as it bears the only resemblance to a life they’ve never had, feelings they’ve never felt. The sudden bursts of self-pity and rage. Clever disguises cloaking hearts exposed. In the very end, he who bears the knife is not the villain. It is the realization that everything you’ve ever done has done nothing but lead you astray. Further and further away from dreams and goals. For some death comes greeted with flowers and banners. A liberator from a life they never wanted, from people they never loved and were ever loved by. For others it comes the opposite way. Deprived of everything they ever wanted.
“I always postponed the day. Accepted it, but I never got to it.”
The janitor explained.
Artiom stod infront of the old LP-player and scrolled amongst the many records the man had collected. Many still covered in plastic, factory-new.
“I always liked Tom Waits. It’s called, 'Blue valentine', the album that is.”
The janitor explained. Artiom found it worn, and he put it on.
“It’s the third track.”
He explained further. The raspy voice started singing and left the room in silent applause, and for a few seconds there was bliss.
“I always imagined myself sitting with my kid by the coast, I used to do that with my dad. We would be having some ice-cream in the sunny weather, my son would run out into the waves and get knocked over like a bowling pin, and I’d join in.”
The man gave Artiom a vague smile.
“Of course he never existed, but that's what I always wanted to do.”
Artiom stood before him and offered him nothing more than an apathetic stare. The janitor sneered at the knife he had been given, prior to this moment.
“It’s tougher than I thought.”
The man snickered nervously, tears began to show in his eyes and his hands trembled.
He had been given an ultimatum, either he slit his wrists, or his aggressor would do things far worse. Of course it was all psychological as his passing needed to be seen as suicide, not murder. But fear plays a big motivator, and the man was quick to comply.
He put the cold blade to his pale wrist, past scars bore witness to ill times. It was all too familiar and he couldn’t help but feel a horrible gust of nostalgia. Hesitation came over him. He tried thinking about all the horrible ways he could go out if he didn’t go through with it, but it helped him little.
“Meet you up there.” He spoke, before he slit two quick, deep cuts in both his wrists. The sudden realization of his mortality left him in shock. He lost his words and saw no constellation to his ill met fate. As his vision faded he saw himself sitting lonesome on an autumn beach, watching the tide rolling in, and in the distance the sun burning out. He saw no one at his side, not a single soul in sight.
The janitor’s neck fell heavy as he bled out on his living-room floor.
Artiom gazed upon his body and got to work with the restraints that had held the man to his chair. The janitors limp body hung low.
Death was never a choice and it never will be. Death is accepting whatever little hope you’ve scraped together and wish for it to be enough comfort as you leave this life behind. Bribing your way past inspections that ought to see your way to hell. Manipulating your past so that no matter how dirty or rusty your car is it’ll still end up in the showroom. Truth is, the only one you’re bribing is the cynical part of yourself, the part of you who realizes that hell is the only thing waiting at the end of the line. No pearly gates shining among the clouds, nothing you'll ever imagine in your most perfect dreams.
Artiom snapped a few quick photos, all from different angles, all equally disgusting in their own right. Despite having little to do with the whole situation, he felt his persuasion to be enough to justify his wage. He left the room as he had entered it; forlorn and regretful.
The psychology of someone in chains always boggled his mind as he observed his canvas. Some in agony, some in despair, some mad and others persuasive. People struggling to collect the remnants of their past, diving further and further into memories long gone in actions forgotten. They twitch and moan, struggling to keep hold of the past as it bears the only resemblance to a life they’ve never had, feelings they’ve never felt. The sudden bursts of self-pity and rage. Clever disguises cloaking hearts exposed. In the very end, he who bears the knife is not the villain. It is the realization that everything you’ve ever done has done nothing but lead you astray. Further and further away from dreams and goals. For some death comes greeted with flowers and banners. A liberator from a life they never wanted, from people they never loved and were ever loved by. For others it comes the opposite way. Deprived of everything they ever wanted.
“I always postponed the day. Accepted it, but I never got to it.”
The janitor explained.
Artiom stod infront of the old LP-player and scrolled amongst the many records the man had collected. Many still covered in plastic, factory-new.
“I always liked Tom Waits. It’s called, 'Blue valentine', the album that is.”
The janitor explained. Artiom found it worn, and he put it on.
“It’s the third track.”
He explained further. The raspy voice started singing and left the room in silent applause, and for a few seconds there was bliss.
“I always imagined myself sitting with my kid by the coast, I used to do that with my dad. We would be having some ice-cream in the sunny weather, my son would run out into the waves and get knocked over like a bowling pin, and I’d join in.”
The man gave Artiom a vague smile.
“Of course he never existed, but that's what I always wanted to do.”
Artiom stood before him and offered him nothing more than an apathetic stare. The janitor sneered at the knife he had been given, prior to this moment.
“It’s tougher than I thought.”
The man snickered nervously, tears began to show in his eyes and his hands trembled.
He had been given an ultimatum, either he slit his wrists, or his aggressor would do things far worse. Of course it was all psychological as his passing needed to be seen as suicide, not murder. But fear plays a big motivator, and the man was quick to comply.
He put the cold blade to his pale wrist, past scars bore witness to ill times. It was all too familiar and he couldn’t help but feel a horrible gust of nostalgia. Hesitation came over him. He tried thinking about all the horrible ways he could go out if he didn’t go through with it, but it helped him little.
“Meet you up there.” He spoke, before he slit two quick, deep cuts in both his wrists. The sudden realization of his mortality left him in shock. He lost his words and saw no constellation to his ill met fate. As his vision faded he saw himself sitting lonesome on an autumn beach, watching the tide rolling in, and in the distance the sun burning out. He saw no one at his side, not a single soul in sight.
The janitor’s neck fell heavy as he bled out on his living-room floor.
Artiom gazed upon his body and got to work with the restraints that had held the man to his chair. The janitors limp body hung low.
Death was never a choice and it never will be. Death is accepting whatever little hope you’ve scraped together and wish for it to be enough comfort as you leave this life behind. Bribing your way past inspections that ought to see your way to hell. Manipulating your past so that no matter how dirty or rusty your car is it’ll still end up in the showroom. Truth is, the only one you’re bribing is the cynical part of yourself, the part of you who realizes that hell is the only thing waiting at the end of the line. No pearly gates shining among the clouds, nothing you'll ever imagine in your most perfect dreams.
Artiom snapped a few quick photos, all from different angles, all equally disgusting in their own right. Despite having little to do with the whole situation, he felt his persuasion to be enough to justify his wage. He left the room as he had entered it; forlorn and regretful.