Redemption Road

I spent the last hours of the afternoon on the peak. I was alone on an island in a sea of clouds. The sunlight was honey, the wind arctic.
I would see you the next day. The first time in four years. So my emotions were wild monkeys.
But I remember that more than anything, I wanted to cry. I could not though. At first I thought it was because my tears would turn to ice and my cheeks were not warm enough to melt them again. Or that I did not have enough bodily fluids left for excessive emotions.
That was, of course, until I considered when the last time was that I shed a tear. For anything. At first I could not remember.
I wished I cried when I lost you. But I had been so afraid of everything happening around me that I focussed within myself. On my own survival.
By the time I realised I was okay, it was too late to mourn anyone. And there were many to mourn. Instead, I resolved to find you again by any means necessary. I would not sleep peacefully for a single night as long as you had not forgiven me.
Because I had never mourned losing you, I could not cry with joy at the realisation of seeing you again.
The last time I cried was when Malik and I were eight years old. I stole a coin out of his mother’s purse one day. She noticed it missing and interrogated us. Malik did not know I had taken it. We both swore our innocence. His mother beat him until his shrieks were from the shock of seeing his own blood. I never confessed to the crime.
On the walk home that evening, I sat down in a large field and cried. Not out of remorse for stealing. Not for betraying Malik. Not because I felt sorry. I cried because I knew that I could never go back to being the me I was before the incident. I had found out about a terrible part of myself that existed within me and that would remain with me for life.
The sun had set on top of the mountain before I got up, ambled to the edge of the ocean of clouds, then sank myself into the world below in order that I may meet you once again.

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17 thoughts on “Redemption Road

  1. Carl

    I loved this piece. For a boy of eight years old, the self-awareness is absolutely incredible, so I spent some time considering that.

    Reply
    1. screen_scribbla Post author

      Yeah, that’s a pretty close approximation, though I don’t think the protagonist has the self-awareness to come to that conclusion!

      Thanks for the read, comment and insight.

      Reply
  2. Kay Camden

    There’s something very different about this one when compared to your other writing. I can’t put my finger on it. I thought reading it again today would help me figure it out. It’s almost like this one is… disconnected? Like the narrator isn’t part of the feelings being described. It also seems like the narrator is going back and forth, not committing to the feelings. Like he’s above them, simply describing them to someone else, and the feeling is there, but not really.

    I don’t know what I’m talking about so just ignore this. 🙂

    Reply
    1. screen_scribbla Post author

      You are absolutely correct. The protagonist in the piece is unable to connect with himself or his circumstances fully on an emotional level. He is confused by what he feels and tries, with only partial success, to figure it all out. And so his voice carries that uncertainty.

      So there you go – you know exactly what you’re talking about!

      Reply
  3. Indigo Spider

    Very dark Scribbla, the remorse and pain are clear. I like “my emotions were wild monkeys,” great description.

    I think this could be a great story if fully developed. If you just sharpen the different people he is mourning, the different incident between Malik and the person he wants to find again, as well as his lost self, extend it all out into a longer story, I could see this publishable. You have an amazing ability to create dark emotions and inner thoughts that flow into the atmosphere of the piece that makes it all very enjoyable. There is so much packed into these few words it seems like it is yearning to be a full story, even a novel.

    The deceptively simple sentence “His mother beat him until his shrieks were from the shock of seeing his own blood” is so powerful and profound it sticks in my thoughts. Makes me want to write a story from that one sentence!

    Reply
    1. screen_scribbla Post author

      Thank you. The novel is on the boil. Soon. Soon.

      Please know that you are most welcome to use that sentence to write a story if you would like to.

      Reply
  4. Re Gypsy

    Wow S, wow. Beautiful imagery, prose, the rhythm in your words, all of it is… Actually just as Blueskypoet said, it’s all summed up with one word. Yes.

    Reply

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