Fallen King

It was a bad day. He was feeling guilty. Guilty of arguing with the girl of his dreams. And guilty of many many other things as well. Was this a week of guilt? He did not recall coming across it in his horoscope. Though it said many other negative things. Maybe it was all coming true. He had found such things difficult to believe in. He believed that such things were in the power of the people, and not up to the decisions of higher beings or stars or whatever hocus-pocus crap. All these people were out to cheat the public of their money.

With a sigh, his thoughts turned back to the afternoon's events again. Unconsciously, he had lost his temper at her. He had raised his voice at her. How could he have done that?

He always had a real nasty temper. But he had kept it in check. And unleashed it through some other channels. In a way, he was like his parents. They had a real temper too. And he remembered those days that he would suffer whenever they were unhappy. Those days, he was at the mercy of their mood swings. And it was considered a light one to get beaten with a wooden rod. That was just the tip of the iceberg.

He touched those scars gingerly, as if pressing them too hard would bring back painful memories. And now, he was doing the same thing to his girl. Maybe not to the point of violence. But he had to keep his irritation in check. He shuddered to think of the consequences that his fury would be unleashed. Never, never like my father, he resolved. I wouldn't be such a bastard, he thought as his fingers ran over the scar on his chin as a courtesy of his father when he was six. A first grader. The memories hurt too much. And so he had bottled them up.

He loved her too much, treasured her too much. He couldn't bear the thought of losing her ever. She was already his the other half. Although he couldn't tell how much she depended on him, he knew deep down, in his cold heart, that she had already became his life sustenance. She was his sun, oxygen, the givers of life, and the moon, O beautiful One, all rolled into one neat little package. She had already melted his cold heart, penetrated his steel cage that he had built neatly around. He had feared to step out. But she had stepped in. And it made all the difference in the world.

Did he ever mentioned that she was a spriteful little thing? His little bundle of joy? Like the sun sprites of Eden, ever darting here and there, full of energy. And her eyes, deep soulful windows to her soul. He could wax lyrical on and on about her, the double of Venus but alas, someone had already beaten him to it. He did not want to sound like a copycat.

His wife. He had always dreamt about it. Visions of them, a multitude of colours so splendid that it hurt his eyes just to look at them. Even in his dreams. Esto perpetua, he mumbled to himself in Latin. Let it be forever... Don't ever let this dream end please, he pleaded to God.

He was sorry for all the things he had done, all his ignorance had led to this trough. With a heavy heart weighing upon his soul, he had went out for a run. And before he even finished warming up, the heavens started to open on him. So it seems that God thinks so too, he smiled to himself wrly. No worries, God. I had made a oath. In the future, I would make it a bloodoath. And if I ever break that oath, you can then send me to burn in Hell, God. How you say about that, he raised his face up to the dark clouds.

Nothing happened. The rain only poured harder. Regardless, he began to start his run, picking up stride. As always, it was comforting running in the rain. It had a soothing effect on the soul, as if the hackles on it was raised, and the rain had now washed them down. Mile after mile he ran, the landscape morphing beside him.

With every stride, he berated himself for his flaws. So many flaws he had.

And at the end of the run, he was throughly exhausted. Both the owner and its celebral organ. It had done an equally exhausting run. He had thought things over. How things should be done. With a gleam in his eyes, like he had received enlightenment, he began his journey home, making a silent promise to write all the thoughts down. He had repentance to do. A vow to fulfil.

When he reached home, he settled down in his armchair, opened his laptop and began, "It was a bad day. He was feeling guilty. Guilty of arguing with the girl of his dreams."

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Rafael's Note: Dedicated to My Lady of My Dreams, SH. I love her dearly.
And I find a need to insert a disclaimer, lest parallels be drawn
unneccessarily. Please draw your eyes to the sidebar on the left of this post.
It is mentioned that fact and fiction is blurred here. There exist no such
terms in this tomes of mine. A pleasure to have you here.

Esto Perpetua...