John woke up with a primal scream, he was laying on the bedroom floor, his children standing above him, swaying back and forth nervously. They did not understand what was happening to their father, their buzzing confused and unsettled. John looked around, he was covered in slimy sweat, his rotten heart pounded against his chest.
What was that? Then, like an echo, there was the answer.
That, John, was a dream, it's what people have. It's what normal people have.
John shook his head and growled. He didn't like this, he didn't like having emotions, he didn't like being able to think, he just wanted to eat and sleep and not have to dream or feel, he just wanted to be oblivious to the world and all its problems.
There are benefits to being able to feel, John, like love and trust. There are bad feelings, yes, but with them are also the greatest of feelings, it's a price to pay.
But John didn't want to pay the price!
Think of your wife, think of the dream, the memory.
John tried not to, but he couldn't help it as he felt the image of his wife slip into his mind. The softness of her long blonde hair, the curve of her rosy cheeks when she smiled. John felt some sort of phantom knife stab his heart. He couldn't describe the exact feeling it gave- it was sweet, yet painful, and seemed to ebb and flow like a thick liquid that went up his chest and in his throat, constricting in a way which gave him the sensation of being unable to breathe. What was this?
It's love, John, don't you remember? You used to be filled with so much of it that anyone that talked to you would instantly feel better. Don't you remember how you used to be, John?
John shook his head again, like a dog with a flea it couldn't scratch off. He was angry, so angry, he hated it all. John looked up and around, finally taking notice of his children all around him, their buzzing finally reaching through to him. They were confused, not quite scared, but confused. John frowned, these were his children, they were who he truly loved. John smiled reassuringly at them, the expression a piece of jagged glass that cut across his diseased face. He would feed them, he would feed all of them, they didn't need to worry, it would be alright.
John stood up, his children's swaying stopped.
Everything... would be alright.
YOU ARE READING
Burden.
Storie breviA sort of short story that is a side piece to a work in progress. This short story, while having a very fictitious premise, uses its strange narration to try and eventually touch on the burdens people go through, whether it be guilt, a form of drug...
