In book 1 of "Forlorn", the introduction of two vacant souls at exemplified through the narrative of an anonymous friend. Telling the tale of the two souls- illustrating a picture so clear. A dramatic, touching tale of loneliness, hopelessness, sadn...
You wanted to hear the tale of the two vacant souls — Well, welcome. I've told this tale too many times to miss any details. Where to begin? Well, of course, let's start here:
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Death was no friend. Death was no enemy. Death was respected. Death cared for no emotions, no wealth, no popularity, no willingness, no regrets, no health. Death was simple, not confusing. You could either accept it or either not, but you could not escape it. She had accepted her grandfather's death. She did not prepare to not cry, but she prepared to experience the pain. Clutching her silk robe with the ashy-ness of her unwashed, unmoisturized hands that hadn't been warmed in nearly 3 weeks. Her slippers dragging echoed throughout the condo of the Las Vegas accommodation. The kitchen she stood, tired.
No more coffee filled the empty blue container or the white-colored cabinets of her home where nothing left but seasonings were stored. A refrigerator as empty as thin air. A freezer that accommodated nothing of any sort of meat, vegetables, nor ice. Was it the lack of energy or the heaviness of depression that caused of desire for the energy booster. Was it the lack of food intake that caused her stomach to agonize, or was it the anxiety. She hadn't eaten a proper meal in weeks. A meal that consisted of a protein- meat- or sides to provide the calories. The pressure of freshwater from her powerful showers' jets hadn't been felt in days. The hair on her head hadn't been tamed and the hair on her legs and under her arms matched the length of a stallion's ponytail.
Sighing of misery, she threw the container in the garbage disposal, proceeding to her dented spot on her white sofa that had been rearranged in the empty living room of her home. No television. No music. No sunlight. No amusement. No joy. No life. She felt tepid. So many emotions of sadness, but yet she still felt tepid.
How does one deal with pain? Alcohol, drugs, sex, self-harm, painting, writing, music, sports, prayer, or death.
She placed her foot on the coffee table, throwing her head back, watching the clock on the wall. The memories of her grandfather's love for old grandfather clocks emerged through her mind, sending uncomfortable chills down her spine.
The screaming of the ancient grandfather clock that stood pinned against the hallway walls startled the eight-year-old Alicia. Accelerating through the hall and back towards her grandfather's lap where he sat watching the garden bloom. Panicking with worry, she asked, "Why does the clock in the hallway make that noise?"
Aware of his granddaughter's fright, a chuckle escaped the crease of his lips, while assisting the eight-year-old into his lap. "The grandfather clock was a fixture of plantation life which life revolved. It told the families and workers when to eat, and when to rest."
The old man spoke to his granddaughter with power and knowledge. The knowledge that would exceed further in her ancient years. The knowledge that would be resourceful for her children and grandchildren who will once express the same curiosity. "Well, why don't my mama have one in our apartment?"
