The Untamed Fire

I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under my breath. “Ten, nine, eight, seven…”. I saw the leading man of the jury on the other side of the glass door as he led the jury that walked marching towards the court room, where I in all my solitude, waited. They held in their hands a piece of paper that would determine which turn the vehicle of my life will steer into. Whether it will crash into a wall made of solid steel or if will be lobbed into the skies of freedom and glory was a decision that will be at the mercy of what the jury believes in. To my dismay, I had given up the fate of my existence in the hands of those twelve people as well, for I could have been the lawbreaker, or I could not have been. Befuddling, isn’t it?

Accustomed to the burden of frustration, I spend my dull afternoons taking a break from the humdrums of the grey life that I have brought myself to. Perhaps I have more than what I deserve to have, but none of it makes me happy. I would not try to glorify myself by telling you what I am not. I am a salesman, who sells exercise equipment for the morbidly fat and the rich. The equipment is robbed of every possible utility, and is a device that aids me in earning some money off the desperate obese populace.

Some weeks ago, I sat at fountain that adorned like a jewel, alongside the curved path of the Central Park. An empty bench was reserved for me, it felt. A bunch of boys came to the path precisely ten minutes after me, glee on their faces, except one. That one boy reminded me of my childhood. As the only boy with spectacles on, he was bullied over by the other boys who followed him. Don’t mistake me for a nice person, for I am not one. I am bereft of sympathy and compassion. Life has filled me enough apathy to serve for this one life at least. I was the shortest in height among my fellow schoolmates who took the same route home. My belongings were tossed, placed on a tree branch high up and more. The days were as dreadful as I imagine them to be, today. My parents handed this matter to the teachers and the teachers put it on my parents. Ultimately, I was left alone to be exploited by my schoolmates. I went through similar emotions, if not same as this boy’s. However, I did not feel bad for the boy, but as the days passed by, the various forms of harassment that he went through had brewed a mixture of rage and anger within him, which blazed his eyes with a fire that I was not an alien to. He would have painted the park red if his physical strength matched with his inner rage.

Some days later, the boy approached me and sat by my side. “Why don’t you help me, sir?”

Surprised by the question, I dove into a pool of thoughts, swimming from one to another. One thought was about how I was as a child. Unlike this boy by my side, I never sought for help. I never thought that I needed help. I had perceived everything that happened in my life as something that is meant to be. My father worked for very long hours, my mom cheated on him and my babysitter barely took care of me. My mother fed herself a belief that I fell for her lies. Nobody needs a dentist three times a week and I was acquainted with that. Fights and violence dominated the small house that my parents could afford and it made me insensitive to both. Neither affected me. Sensitivity is like a lemon; once dried up, it is only worthy of debris.

As a child, I demonstrated violence in my own way. With barely anyone to supervise me, I was at the liberty of experimentation and at the mercy of no one. Fire. I love fire. I loathe cigarettes or any other smoke, but fire mesmerizes me. It fascinates even today, when I am over thirty, how almost the entirety of the object turns black upon burning. The wrappers of the Christmas presents were the subjects of my first experiments. They shrivelled, cowered and got supressed by the raw might of the orange-yellow power, rendering them ruthlessly of their purpose.

I did not stop here. The brutality of my actions climbed the ladder. I know these as brutal acts because I learnt the meaning of sensitivity from others, when I had already surpassed the barrier, time and again. It was too late until I knew that I was a monster! Do I regret any of it? No. Remorse alights from the train along with benevolence. I went to my front yard, and put a burning match inside the ant hill. The pleasure that I now know to be so sadistic was once a matter of joy for me. It fed my endless curiosity. I did not stop at ants. I lit roaches and lizards alive as well. If there were someone who corrected me while I was young, I might have stopped being apathetic, but then I would have been robbed of the ultimate pleasure that I derived from burning those little helpless bastards alive!

“Why do you think should I help, boy?” I responded after a while, taking a deep dig into my sandwich.

“Because you seem to care,” said the boy with barely any expression or hope for help.

I ignored the boy, for I don’t consider myself to be the best of the men one must seek out for advice. The boy went away, alone, dejected. His loneliness followed him unmistakably and was deafeningly loud. Being accustomed to seclusion, the supressed, quiet rage within him came an inch closer to the surface. It was an issue that went miles ahead of simply bullying. It scars the person for life. A human is nothing but an amalgamation of all the experiences that he has in his entire lifetime. There is a reason why I am who I am. Improper direction of right and wrong, insufficient childcare, limitless mistreatment and guiltless pleasures.

The scene repeated day after day, as I ate my lunch, I saw that boy get beleaguered by the boys out of his league. Still, sympathy is not the word that I would use to describe how I felt. I could not care less. As a matter of fact, I mentally tried to run away from the situation, as it reminded me of the unpleasant times from my past that bring me trepidation.

After some more days, he came and sat next to me for another time. For a boy that age, he spoke some words of a wise man. “For someone who could witness and tolerate the injustice on a young boy so casually, one has to consider this juvenile and unimportant.” The wrath that was bred within him was closer to the surface than the last time I had felt.

I was taken aback by his words. Maybe he was right. Perhaps I do not find this to be a big deal. Or perhaps it was only an extension of my unconcern for anything that goes around of me. How do I explain it to him? I tried.

“Have you tried talking to your elders about this?” I asked, surprising myself with the level of maturity that I had in my talk.

“You think I would resort to a complete stranger eating his lunch in a park before resorting to my parents and teachers? Do you see what they are doing to me? Do you see how limbless I feel when they are harassing me?”

His voice rose with every question that he asked. His face trembled, his lips parted and he sweltered like a pig. I simply stared back at his eyes and he calmed down, started staring at his shoes – shoe, just one shoe. The other was hanging up the tree in the park.

Agitated, I frowned at the boy’s situation. The realization hit me like a truck on my face that the bullied life that I had is not the one that I wish for this boy, here. It was one of the reasons why I grew up to be an ungrateful piece of being. A personality is at the mercy of how things are around you when you grow up. I am sullen, apathetic, unconcerned, indifferent, cruel and violent due to the circumstances that impressed me in my childhood were full of it. Do I love it? If I understood what love was, I would not love who I am, I am doubtless.

A sudden wave of anger swept me red. I noticed the boy feel empowered as my fury boiled within me.

As I stand now in the court, awaiting judgement, the echoes from my past still haunt me, but I feel that I brought about a change in this world. A world of shame was swirling within me, but my face had a happy curve on it. Never had I known what disgust means until today, when I helped prevent a boy from turning into who I am—a hateful and spiteful piece of wreckage. The solution is to slice down the roots!

“Six, five, four, three, two, one…”

“With regards to the case charged against you for the murder of three teenagers, we find you…” the pause between now and the decision felt to be the longest. “Guilty.” The voice came from the skies. Hazy, yet perceptible. For reasons I could not comprehend, it felt like a piece fell right in place. I felt complete.

The boy followed me as they took me away for a life in prison. I knelt down, and looked in his teary eyes, free of the rage. “How am I to live with this, sir?”

I sighed. I did this because this gave my life some meaning, some purpose. “I did this for myself, boy. You live like a man should. Learn not from me.”

“But,” the boy cried profusely. His words were unspoken, but yet heard. He felt the fire within him subside, as I saw the one he set on the boys roar aloud.

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Author: Nik V

I am an enthusiast, reader and an aspiring writer. One never knows if a story is a good one or a bad one, unless one reads it. I intend to present the best of the stories that run around in my head to this page, where I hope you could find some entertainment.

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