One Way

Night after night, I kept only a single faint gaslamp by my desk to illuminate this ill-lit study. Always was I lost in the solace of shade, enamored by flirting silence, left in glad seclusion with none but an undying imagination–all to no end, for what a boundless relic the mind is! The aptitude of acuity is a sign of prestige among men. Yet, such a privilege is absolute only when there is nothing of privilege: Creativity is birthed from an environment devoid of any, that is the status quo.

That, precisely, is why only through dusk may I foster innovation–an absence that roots my passion and acumen, seizing a level of keen intricacy that delves to serve one ambition and one ambition alone: To be a great wielder of the text–a man who instills nigh-divine fervor in the populace, commands the ardor even far past his demise; a maestro leading the grandest orchestra. And with no more than paper and an inked quill.

And yet, here I sit firmly before my desk, with a crisp sheet of paper on which rests an untouched quill—a familiar sight, frustratingly so. Time and again, I have sat here absent-minded, stirring up musings unfit for the realm of captivation–ideas that, rather incomprehensibly, came defective, an atrocity even.

'How despicable!' I kept reminding myself. Countless figures of elite literacy have proven even their wildest, darkest ideas to be feasible; precisely so! It mustn't be the idea itself where the strife endeavors but rather how the idea is rendered, granted shape and definition! So, all that I wonder is: Why do I struggle so thoroughly despite my unwavering commitment to the text?

Could it be my musings truly were insufficient, the ambitions of idiocy, errands of a fool too stubborn to recognize his blunders-? No, impossible. What pitiful notions have I mustered–my failures were purely bygones, shackles that hold but do not restrain me. For the longest time–further than the stars–I had an unwavering ache etched in my soul that the birth of my 'perfect narrative' was inevitable–and all the more, exceeding even the utmost fiendish of hunger: I crave for that time to be now.

In sooth, my 'perfect narrative' could not be simply defined by a duff term such as 'idea'; It is the vast apex of my aspirations–my lifeblood fashioned into tangible bliss akin to the coveted highs of heaven itself. A 'perfect narrative' is not a mere 'article'; it is oneself. And through the incarnation of oneself in their narrative is the incarnation of every man. Though we differ drastically, ultimately, Humans are repeated.

Beneath the flickering gaslight, my eyes lay upon the rested quill, the beating of my heart a drum, chiming my ears with a seductive melody. Soon, I raised a hand, took the quill, and submerged its tip in ink. My hand shivered with a thrilled commitment to the page as I began, each scribble and stroke of the feather–the culmination of my past woes and a revival of beauty. 'Before even dusk arrives,' I repeated whisperingly. Admittedly, I rambled on like a madman–yet such a response is natural, no? Obscenity is the consequence of passion; every man naturally must be prepared for such, and only then is their vigor justified.

And from the beginning, that is exactly how it was! What did the men of elite literacy–Fyodor Dostoevsky, Count Tolstoy–share in common?! A silent relentlessness akin to a wounded beast, defiant against punishment! They do not let the overwhelming strain, the obscenity traitorously brought forth by their own passion, stutter or stumble them–rather, they bear such torment as fuel. In this self-sustaining cycle, waste itself fathers creation!--

…

To walk down a path–

…

Of exalted struggle is–

…

I– Two knocks. I heard two knocks, and they felt muffled. Another two rang, and now they felt stern, I think. At first, I had not noticed–why would I? But now… Every thinkable crevice of my once-still study–that noise screamed, horribly.

My body withered into a harrowing unease, the grasp on my quill slipping. Cold sweat rushed—cursing me a dreadful sensation akin to being at the mercy of a bear's cruel fangs. 'But why- how?' I murmured with utmost distress. Without a moment of breath, a savage pang of fear bit my nerves; timidly, I arose and turned around. I saw only the void share my glance; in the quiet, I heard none but my own panting. Overrun by this frantic cecity, I rushed forward, heedless–my leg stung as I had struck blindly against my chair; one misstep taken, and I fell into an abrupt collapse.

The instant I landed, a sharp rupture echoed about my quiet study. As I lay on the cold floor, shrills of a blurred howl pranced over my mind, sowing an intolerable heftiness until– I- God… Oh, p-pain. Ravaging all around like wolves… A pain far too torturous, a damnation! A searing agony rots my head to a molten ruin, and there follows a recurrent thorn matching the flaring sting of a needle tenfold! I-I can not move, I can not hear- Damn it all! To what end?! Why have I been forsaken when I have struggled solely for excellence my entire life? Was that not the ideal? Does the world punish those who serve its interests?!

I- This is… Every moment of this anguish is… It is of a wild, inhumane crudeness, an unjust act of detestation by–Oh, what sort of god condemns one to such a fate, to gore them at the final tread to fulfillment? I held thorough faith in my innate acuity and the belief that my mind could inevitably triumph! To be pillaged from the aspiration I have long lusted for since– it simply is-

…

Had my study always been this dark, so devoid? I do not understand… I am faint and uneasy to the shadows encircling me– How? With bottomless repute, this place of solitude had served me since my beginnings; it is the bastion of my very imagination, it has witnessed the darkest depths of my acumen– And it must be still, I'm sure of it!

And yet– No. If this is truly the place of my utmost familiarity, the place where I met my failures, but simultaneously the place where I strived…

"Then beyond that, for what it truly is–why do I fail to muster a word to describe it?"

"..."

"I am afraid."

...

It was a bleak September–the weather foreboding and the sky deprived of merit, as were my hopes. I stood morosely on the pavement, facing my dear old homestead, wearing in the British countryside. It had been six months. I intended to make frequent visits, although my tedious position as a student in Dublin had rid me of the opportunity–even forcing one this week was onerous... However, I must admit, my desperation to come back was not of sentimentality.

To start from the beginning: In the past, early in my pubescence, both my parents were deceased. My father–a passionate carpenter, a good man–perished on the construction site on March 8th, 1865. The damned scaffolding was unsound, and during work, beneath his feet, it crumbled. Thereafter, my mother mourned his absence brutally for weeks–until one gusty morning, she was missing. Presumed dead on April 22nd, 1865. Eventually, this home–once of a beloved family–lingered only for my younger brother and me.

But it felt like only I was truly alive. While I toiled amidst grief–undertaking errands in the nearby town to provide–my brother drained hours secluded in his room, wasting away on- God knows what. By then, our interactions were notional. Irregularly, he did vacate the house–albeit without my notice–and it always took an hour before he returned. Covered in filth, he only came back with one thing: a book, just as. He was not fond of literature, at least of yore–so why? My persistent questioning held no token.

For years, this was my burden. I sought to be solely self-serving; it was for my- the best. Yet guilt whispered of my brother–he was at a low, and I had to guide him. But it was difficult, painfully difficult. At that point, I did not know if I could consider my brother a human being any longer–who could? What do you call a life bent on such alienation? He did not look me in the eye, he did not utter a word to me; I only heard in his room whisper the lines of those rugged books he likely stole. Was this his way of mourning? Then perhaps like mother he would– No.

Although six months earlier–when I had turned twenty–I had decided to make the worn and assured decision of alas leaving it all behind, to settle elsewhere and reclaim the life I had been robbed years of. The following day–on a distinctly cold afternoon–I made what I thought to be my last stray into my brother's quarters to witness- just to see if he harbored any semblance of a reaction to my departure.

I vividly remember what I saw when the door creaked open. It was akin to a vast abyssal wreck–a space where stars perished long ago, augmented by a festering stench akin to a rotting carcass, and amid that profound emptiness sat my brother at his desk, with but a mere gaslamp for his company.

The second I stepped inside, even in the shadows, my scorn paved a clear path. The culminated bitterness of having to tug his burdens with mine shed like blood–I recall the sore resentment that erupted from my tongue, like rushing fire. Yet it pained to yell–because like a fool, I clung to hope that perhaps some bit of the brother I once knew, I once had, still cared. He gave me no answer.

I left without a word.

When I ultimately arrived in Dublin, I settled in a modest, cheap flat. Thereafter, I sought first a proper education; that way, I would have been able to make a proper standing now that I resided in the urbanity. I spent the rest of the week restlessly searching across the bustling city before I came across an affordable enough–though admittedly lackluster–academy, a significant advancement nonetheless.

Yet, amid the satisfaction of the progress I yearned for, the foreboding that racked me like a plague lingered. 'It is no longer your burden!' I harshly reminded myself. But in the end, those hopeless notions subsumed me. Consequently, nearly night after night, I began writing letters to my brother–to a ghost. And what came? Six months of deafening silence. And there in all my unruly dread–I returned.

I knew- I knew well that I should have stayed in Dublin, focused on my studies to fulfill what I've- I just could no longer deny it. No amount of success could ever heal my- our wounds. Heaving a deep sigh I cautiously neared the door, and alas grasped the crisp touch of the knob, as I turned... Ah–expectedly, it was locked. What was I thinking? When I left, I should never have disposed of the keys... I stood there without a solution for a moment until my gaze caught the sash window west of the door–the one to his room. Assuming he is still there, perhaps I could draw his attention directly.

As I shuffled hastily to the window, an abrupt, odd sense of optimism overwhelmed me–so much that my lip briefly curled into a half-smirk. However, as I warily peered in, I saw nothing but black. Even the usual gas lamp he'd kept by was absent; this time truly felt as though I was staring into a dull cavern. My optimism quickly faded- yet I scarcely managed to contain myself and instead took to deeper examination. There, I re-evaluated: I gazed not into a pitch-black expanse; Verily, the window had instead been blocked off. Such truth did not ease me but instead left me with further concern.

Staring grimly into the viewless window, I was plunged into a mad storm of undesired notions–this was not here before, so why is it here now? Is this truly all that my attempt at courage amounts to–an unforeseen barricade? In those spiraling thoughts, my fist subconsciously lifted itself before the glass. The hand shook very slowly as if puppeteered despite resistance. At that moment, I crossly grasped that my options were running low, slipping like sand. Anything matters now. With my will realigned, I took a sharp breath– two knocks. I softly knocked twice on the glass. A second of quiet passed. I knocked twice again, this time sternly.

A brief stillness drowned the environment as I stood frozen and breathless–as if the very flow of time had been obstructed. And I was there, wishing, dreaming–dreaming dreams afar from the dreams here I left with. Thirty seconds had passed, and the silence lingered heavy. Disappointed, my fist sheepishly lowered as I took a short step back, my will ever-fleeting while staring at the viewless window. By reflecting on that dim panel–reflecting the weary face of a pale young man–I realized I appeared no better than my brother the last I saw of him. I felt pity–foolishness even. No longer for returning here, but for leaving. I should have never; even if it pained- I should have remained and mended what was still–

…

I– A thud. I heard a muffled, leaden thud. It came from the window- no, inside my brother's room. And–most dreadfully–a sharp yelp of undeniable anguish followed suit, by a voice of terrible distinction. Even after years, to hear that voice properly again was my deepest wish–but not like this. My heart pounded, pounding as if it were to burst as I took a hesitant step back, and shouted, 'Thomas?' There was no response.

In an instant, I impulsively bolted for the door. I clutched the knob and erratically turned left and right, whilst kicking the door over and over to an aching degree. The door would not budge. Breathless, my eyes darted around helplessly, searching for any sort of aid, but there was nothing in the endless expanse of rurality that surrounded me. No- It doesn't matter, I can't afford to waste time–not now, not again. I paced away from the door, with a hefty wind–I braced myself.

The breeze caressed my skin as my bleary sight centered on the door. Admittedly, I was trembling, shaken by my decision. But it is either me or my brother... This time, I won't have to choose–both of us can become anew, and I'll pave the path. I took a step forward–and I ran. For the first time in years, I ran faster than I knew I could. My legs pumped like a galloping horse; in my troubles, this act felt almost freeing. Yet ultimately short-lived, I shut my eyes, awaiting as the distance came ever nearer.

I suddenly felt the rough timber collide against me; wood dust flitted about as the door shot open. I stumbled across the floorboards before abruptly falling on my knee–my entire body sore with pain. I clenched my arm, heaving in strained, yet ever-calmer breaths. In a few seconds, the pain had come to pass. I warily held my chest as I, with some struggle, picked myself up. Coughing lightly, I rubbed my eyes as I steadily began to open them… By god, what has become of this place?

The clarity in my memories seeped ever worse to the sight–my home, I recall a scarce but quaint abode–those memories rang a haunting disparity to where I now stood. It verily felt as though I were stranded in a forsaken graveyard stretching miles and miles. Basked in whisking shadows, only the faint outline of 'furniture' discernible, and– how pungent! I thought repulsed. I covered my nose as a strict stench of 'ink' choked the hall. I desperately reached into my left pocket, taking out a miniature lighter which I briskly ignited–providing a small but worthwhile flame.

The warm radiance of the fire put me allay, I began examining my unlit surroundings–searching for that door. I made slack steps forward intermittently, and with that ghastly reek of ink evermore. Yet, despite my contempt for its fetor, beyond its trepidation, it served as a useful escort. Although simultaneously it led me astray to question the current circumstances further. Just what truly happened to my brother? That was his voice–right? No doubt.

Ultimately, the fruits of my blind probing had ripened–I had come across that door. The stench of ink faded, and standing there–the hot gleam of my lighter bearing a futile comfort–a nefarious sense of wrongness squirmed within my stomach, like a clew of worms. Present before this door once more is a feeling best described as… Displeasing. But this was it. Whatever I find beyond this door now–no, no that's not it… Perhaps that yell, in such agony… Is not what I am imagining to have happened.

This is what I asked for. There's only one choice now.

Grasping the knob, whose touch pierced with a familiar, frigid sting–my thoughts again began to race wildly. I stifled my breath as I pushed forward. The door creaked open, emanating a hostile presence akin to a dense, unwavering mist. That nefarious sensation earlier only intensified–gnawing at me was a voice wailing to fall back and shut that damned door. However, I bluntly resisted to my utmost, eager not to surrender myself.

I warily halted my movement as the door opened wide. Insensibly taking a shallow tread into that chamber–the flamelet of my lighter was swiftly extinguished by its narrow breeze. However, in the end, it appeared obsolete. That exact gaslamp I thought to have vanished rested idly at my brother's desk just across. It offered only a rudimentary illumination–serving more as a basis to outline what lay beneath the shadows of the expanse. Though it was enough. More than enough.

Beneath the gaslight, I noticed a creased sheet of paper on his desk, with scratches sprawled about its thin surface. And beside it was a splintered, old quill–supposedly unused for months. My brother was- is here, I thought, as ever vigilantly I ambled into those unwanting depths–my gaze locked on the flaring gaslamp. Then where is he? I was beginning to feel weak and infirm–unlike other times, I truly could not fathom the reason. I was horrified by nothing–

…

From the shadows, I felt as if something had caught my boot–something soft. Disturbed, I nearly staggered into a collapse, only managing to recover my balance barely. Though I briskly paced back, my teeth clenching. My skin went abnormally pale as I hurriedly attempted to rekindle my lighter. Yet just as I had–it slipped out of my grasp, dropping and rolling onward across the floor, alight. In my distress, I knelt to retrieve it–

It abruptly halted. The gleam of its sputtering flame unveiled nearby what appeared to be–a hand… A pale hand, smaller than my own. The lighter's flare then flickered into further reach. In the wisping instant of that reluctant illumination, I witnessed the body of a 'dead' man. A wretched man, a blessed man, an empty man–numerous things, nevertheless, a mere man–rested on the floor forlorn and forsaken.

This is my brother.