Post by John Gone on Jul 13, 2008 2:44:12 GMT -5
Pitch black. A flash of light. A frail little figure is illuminated for a split second. The whirring of tiny gears. Then indecipherable shuffling about. A match strikes against a box, lighting a large, white, three-wick candle. As the dim yellow light illuminates the immediate area around it, we see that John Gone is the one holding it. He sets it on a table and sits down, shaking a Polaroid picture in his other hand. Near where I used to live there was this house. He blows on the face of the picture and sets it down on the table. He lets out a bemused laugh. “This house.” There was this husk. A hollowed out shell. It was separated from the rest of the town. Time and elements had beaten it into submission. They told us not to go in. But I went in a lot. It wasn’t locked, the door was lying on the porch and the door jam was a lot of splinters around the entrance. The walls were these wood planks with plaster stuck on it like Paper Mache. Dishes were smashed, toys thrown around the yard. There was a side mirror, like from a car, smashed in the drive way. And the windows were all broken out- little wisps of soot spreading away from the frames. I always wondered what the deal was with the house. He holds the Polaroid up to the light to inspect. He shakes it a bit more.
A picture, as the saying goes, is worth a thousand words. The picture this house painted told me plenty. Something went wrong there. He blows on the picture some and set it back on the table. I like to think that it was a very formative image in my life. People were very clearly happy there once. But then, well… His head cocks and he sighs. Something went wrong. Something, he shrugs and folds his hands in front of him on the table, took what for all intents and purposes seemed to be quite a happy family, and left a charred carcass with toys strewn about the front yard and a broken side mirror in the driveway. Gone leans forward and crosses his arms on the table, resting his chin on his arms. “Man,” thought a young John Gone. “If I could have the same impact on people…” Alright, I never really thought that, but the link is undeniable.
He slides the picture in front of him and stares at it. Most people, they aren’t that different from that house. They’re happy. Or at the very least they’re safe and they convince themselves they’re happy. All it takes is for one thing to go wrong enough and then, he waves his hand to the side, gone. The air from his hand motion blows the picture to the other end of the table. Gone sits a moment in silence, the light from the candle flickering against half of his face, the other half immersed in shadow. Out in the dark around him a gasp and scuffle is heard. He sighs and steps out into the shadows. For a moment the room is still and silent. The Polaroid sits on the table face down. A black square framed in white, tinged yellow from the candle light.
Gone quietly reenters the light. He slides discreetly back into his chair, acting as though nothing had happened. It’s not so difficult, really. People break a lot easier than they like to think they would. These little foundations we build ourselves up on, more often than not, stand on the assumption that people like me won’t come along. That nothing will go wrong. But then something does. Something always does. And then… His face doesn’t change. But his expression gains a tense, ominous undertone. Then they’re just a lot of children’s toys thrown around the yard, like branches after a storm. Hollowed out. Nothing left of them. The corners of his mouth curl, but it somehow doesn’t look like he’s smiling. Something went wrong.
I thought back to that house for a moment early this week. Just before me and the girl started. It was what made me think of it now. He pulls a felt marker out of his pocket. She begged, that girl. She pleaded with me. She never caught on that it wasn’t doing any good. I spelled it out for her, even. Whenever I started a new part. Every burn, bruise, cut, penetration, everything else. He smirks. Begged. Days upon days. And then it ended the same as it always does. I hollowed her out. His head tilts downward slightly. So to speak. The cap of the marker clicks as Gone takes it off. He takes the Polaroid in hand and makes a quick scribble of letters at the bottom, where the white paper frames the picture. Which leaves what, exactly? Do I discard? He tosses the picture on the table along with the marker as he shakes his head, looking casually off to the side.
Nah. There are plenty of places to take this. I must admit, I am interested in where it goes from here. Normally this is where my…issue…with someone ends. He takes the photo back in hand, holding it by the corner between his thumb and forefinger. As he sighs, he tilts his head to the side gazing at the picture. I don’t really have much contact with home. But, uh… last time I got word from St. Mary’s City I heard they were going to tear that house down. He holds up the picture, almost as if displaying it. Yeh Ren. You aren’t going to find her. But I’ll be a lot easier to get a hold of. He slaps the picture face up on the table. It’s a picture of Kagrra. What little is discernable of her is streaked with blood and bruises. At the bottom in the white of the Polaroid paper is written in big bold letters: GONE.
