Post by Kyle on Nov 29, 2016 23:17:15 GMT -5
Round and round the ceiling fan ran, with not a single care in the world. It just . . . functioned, ebony wood circulating white noise that sustained man through the night. An anchor, holding firm no matter how its life twisted and turned. An encouragement. Hope.
The mattress creaked as the man sat up in bed. Or, at least, the camera sat up in a first-person take. It appeared to be a studio apartment-style home with a bamboo shoji screen acting as the barrier between the bedroom and the rest of the apartment. The camera looks to the right where viewers see a second occupant of the bed laying, her bare back facing the camera. Blond hair cascades across the pillow and pale shoulder of the woman. A hand, the right one, reaches out towards the girl and hesitates over her figure for the briefest of moments before resting on her shoulder blade; he gently runs his thumb across her goose-pimpled skin. The caress elicits a mumble from the woman, who reaches out and squeezes the hand touching her before curling further under the covers.
The protagonist throws the covers aside and steps out of bed.
Past the dividing screen was a posh apartment with a modern design. Black and white dominated the part living room, part kitchen, part dining room space, which despite its cramped façade was actually quite spacious. The was even room for a piano, white as the snow dancing past the windows on the east wall, in the corner overlooking the city. Beside it was an old record-player, a disc already queued for the listening pleasure just waiting to be played. Deft hands reach out and sets it all in motion. The scratching of the record is heard followed by the opening chords to “The Butcher” by Leonard Cohen.
“I came upon a butcher,
He was slaughtering a lamb,
I accused him there,
With his tortured lamb.”
The figure steps over to the window and looks out over Central Park in Manhattan. A fog wavered over the open expanse, a colorful haze on account of the Christmas lights outlining the trees and street lamps. Blues and Greens and Reds. Whites too as the car beams pierced the early morning on their commute to somewhere. It was like an ant hill from this distance, mere specks moving to and fro in silence. What a sight it was.
“He said, Listen to me, child
I am what I am and you, you are my only son”
The record scratches abruptly, like fingernails on chalkboard, and skips ahead further in the song.
“It did some good,
Did some harm.”
The camera looks down at the hardwood floor, quivering as the record skips again with a second blood-curdling scratch of the record.
“I go round and round
And you, you are my only child.”
[SCRATCH]
“Do not leave me now”
[SCRATCH]
“Do not leave me now”
[SCRATCH]
“I’m broken down
From a recent fall.”
The camera, which began to shake more and more which each scratch of the record, jerked suddenly as the protagonist lashes out, punching the window with his right hand. A shattering of glass is heard as the window pane cracks from the blow. And then the drip, drip, of blood on hardwood. The cuts were small across the knuckles and fingers, but oh how they bled. Like a spider web, lacing down the fingers and palm. The protagonist stares for a long moment at the red hand before reaching out to touch the window once more. The record scratches again.
“Blood upon my body
And ice upon my soul,”
It took but a moment to write the single word out with the blood as the ink. The significance, though, would last much, much longer.
No name was necessary. Only a single, bloody handprint pressed beneath the word like a seal
“Lead on, my son, it is your world.”
The scene fades out a moment later.
The mattress creaked as the man sat up in bed. Or, at least, the camera sat up in a first-person take. It appeared to be a studio apartment-style home with a bamboo shoji screen acting as the barrier between the bedroom and the rest of the apartment. The camera looks to the right where viewers see a second occupant of the bed laying, her bare back facing the camera. Blond hair cascades across the pillow and pale shoulder of the woman. A hand, the right one, reaches out towards the girl and hesitates over her figure for the briefest of moments before resting on her shoulder blade; he gently runs his thumb across her goose-pimpled skin. The caress elicits a mumble from the woman, who reaches out and squeezes the hand touching her before curling further under the covers.
The protagonist throws the covers aside and steps out of bed.
Past the dividing screen was a posh apartment with a modern design. Black and white dominated the part living room, part kitchen, part dining room space, which despite its cramped façade was actually quite spacious. The was even room for a piano, white as the snow dancing past the windows on the east wall, in the corner overlooking the city. Beside it was an old record-player, a disc already queued for the listening pleasure just waiting to be played. Deft hands reach out and sets it all in motion. The scratching of the record is heard followed by the opening chords to “The Butcher” by Leonard Cohen.
“I came upon a butcher,
He was slaughtering a lamb,
I accused him there,
With his tortured lamb.”
The figure steps over to the window and looks out over Central Park in Manhattan. A fog wavered over the open expanse, a colorful haze on account of the Christmas lights outlining the trees and street lamps. Blues and Greens and Reds. Whites too as the car beams pierced the early morning on their commute to somewhere. It was like an ant hill from this distance, mere specks moving to and fro in silence. What a sight it was.
“He said, Listen to me, child
I am what I am and you, you are my only son”
The record scratches abruptly, like fingernails on chalkboard, and skips ahead further in the song.
“It did some good,
Did some harm.”
The camera looks down at the hardwood floor, quivering as the record skips again with a second blood-curdling scratch of the record.
“I go round and round
And you, you are my only child.”
[SCRATCH]
“Do not leave me now”
[SCRATCH]
“Do not leave me now”
[SCRATCH]
“I’m broken down
From a recent fall.”
The camera, which began to shake more and more which each scratch of the record, jerked suddenly as the protagonist lashes out, punching the window with his right hand. A shattering of glass is heard as the window pane cracks from the blow. And then the drip, drip, of blood on hardwood. The cuts were small across the knuckles and fingers, but oh how they bled. Like a spider web, lacing down the fingers and palm. The protagonist stares for a long moment at the red hand before reaching out to touch the window once more. The record scratches again.
“Blood upon my body
And ice upon my soul,”
It took but a moment to write the single word out with the blood as the ink. The significance, though, would last much, much longer.
H E L L O
No name was necessary. Only a single, bloody handprint pressed beneath the word like a seal
“Lead on, my son, it is your world.”
The scene fades out a moment later.
