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Under Gray Skies; A Poe-y sort of story.
Topic Started: Apr 7 2012, 05:04 PM (87 Views)
Wallace Apr 7 2012, 05:04 PM Post #1
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Break out the L-word. The other L-word.
 My dearest friend Elizabeth,

It is to you whom I write, because you are my closest friend. You are my closest friend not due to my having shown you my weaknesses, as this is not a relatively rare occurrence and many know my weaknesses of my own telling them: you could say that telling others this is a weakness in itself. It is in the fact that not only have I done this, but that your own weaknesses have fallen upon my ears that I consider you my closest friend. And due to this bond, I must tell you a great many things that have happened since I last wrote to you: all of which you may find horrifying, or you would were you like the others, but I have faith in your reason and that you will be open-minded to the extent to hear me out.

First and foremost I must speak to you on a personal matter, on a one-to-one level. As you have known me, I have always been one to treasure my friends of the opposite gender as I, and I have never been able to differentiate between friend and romantic interest in my mind. I have on many occasions said, that, “If there is a person whom I call my friend of the female gender, it is likely that at some point I have taken a fancy to them.” You know this to have been a remarkably true statement, as, in a letter I wrote to you several years ago, I confessed of my feelings for you. You replied, telling me that you, too, had felt this way but could not find the courage to say it in the same fear as I: a fate worse than rejection, a fate that does not include us even as friends, even as acquaintances: merely a sore memory. But, your being several states away from me, on the other side of the country, has kept us apart. We left it at this and continued our current status as friends whose communication is restricted by distance to the medium of pen and paper.

Please, I beg of you to continue reading, into the second part of my letter, after what I am about to say to you.

I am sorry to now tell you that, unbeknownst to me, my feelings for you were a lie. I had known of your troubled past, of broken hearts and broken bones, and felt pity: this pity grew to an immense level such that I thought I had fallen in love with you. It is with sincerest apologies that I tell you that such feelings are invalid, that pity is not love, as love is intense admiration for another’s character. I do not know of your qualities, but only your countless grievances. I do not know of any admirable traits or skills within you further than that of being so capable and apt at acquiring my pity.

I do not say what I say out of any intended malice: only under the pressure to tell the truth. To tell you otherwise would be to lie to you, and I could not in good consciousness lie to my dearest friend. I do not wish to cut off our friendship, but if you wish to that is your choice. It does not mean I do not like you, or find any of your traits deplorable: I do like you, only not in the way I had once claimed.

I felt that any and all personal matters between me, the writer of this letter and the narrator of the soon-following narrative of unquestionable truth, and you, the reader of this letter and the soon-following narrative of unquestionable truth held within, be promptly dealt with before I continue.

I have gone quite mad, in the eyes of others, all others but you, as I believe you will understand, that you will not fancy me mad, and that the experience will draw us together. I have accepted what I once regarded as irrational, or in my hatred of it inadvertently played its own game.

It was following a meeting with my father, whom I have described to you, quite aptly, as an immoral, idiotic, irrational excuse for a parent figure whom I have clashed with on several various occasions over rather trivial matters. I recall quite clearly the state of the weather of the time: a dark gray sky had very recently cast itself over the earth, suffocating, oppressing us all. Spring was trying to force itself through the bleakness, small patches of little white flowers popping up in fields and yards, the occasional bee hovering about them, collecting the nectar.

I was, as a matter of fact, writing a letter to you regarding the above topic before the occurrence that has so affected me. All of a sudden, my father—who you know to board with me, unless I had at some point forgotten to mention this fact—marched into my chambers, crying to me that he needed a larger allowance. He did not work, not because he was not able but because he was not willing. “Your allowance be damned,” I replied, irritated, “I need not give it to you at all.”

“It is simply not enough to live a life proper!” The indignation in his voice smacked of intoxication.

“Is living a life proper defined by drinking yourself sick each night and impressing young ladies at balls with fancy coats, coaxing them into your chamber?” I did not look up from my letter, but did not write.

“How my life is lived is none of your concern!”

“It is when it is I and I alone who supports your life, you who refuse to work for a living.”

“You can’t be serious!”

I suddenly turned my head to him. “You don’t really need to live here at all.”

“You can’t be serious!” he repeated, his voice ringing with absolute disbelief.

“But I am.” I stood calmly, facing the old man. “I expect you to leave by sunrise to-morrow.”

He suddenly snatched up the stationary from my desk. “Who are you writing to?” He turned, walking out of my chamber.

The question and swift action caught me off-guard. I followed after him, beckoning, “Whose business is that but mine?”

“Oh, to ‘My Dearest Elizabeth,’ I see…” His voice was layered with such sarcastic sweetness as he quoted the letter that I would have struck him had I not the self-control that I do.

“You do not understand the context; you have no clue of what it means!” I cried, reaching out to him as I chased him down the hall.

“Oh, I’m perfectly aware of what it means…” He turned on me, grinning. “I wonder what your wife would think of this…”--

The thought now just occurred to me that you may not have known about my wife. Yes, I have a wife, though in my newfound sagacity and power, she may be next.

--I saw through the evil look and knew what he was doing. I knew there was no escape; I had no choice but to accept his blackmail. I sighed. “You may stay.”

“And the raise in allowance?”

I cringed, knowing that I had no choice but to follow his demands, but the thoughts, the dark clouds of hatred within my mind that so mirrored the clouds in the sky, began to form in my mind. “Very well…”

I made one final swipe at the object of blackmail, but somehow, despite his drunken stupor, he retained his swiftness of motion. I then turned back down the hall, returning to my chamber. I sat down at my desk, staring at the wall, anger, what I once considered such a negative, irrational emotion, clouding my vision. And it was then that I began to plot to do the only thing I knew could be done to remedy the situation I found myself in: I had to destroy the old man. But it had to seem as an accident; I could not be punished for my crime of great justice. For you see, it truly is an action of justice, though your conventional way of thinking morally may not think it yet; you will soon learn, though, that all things I do are guided by pure morality, and that nothing in my actions were immoral. It is the idiotic, irrational moral points of view of those around us that make my angelic actions a crime, you see, and that were they able to view morality as it should be viewed, they would understand and dismiss all charges, were I caught!

I knew, however, that such moral repolarization takes time, and that there was not enough time neither in my life nor in the world to make them all see. I hope, at the very least, I will succeed in making you realize how very rational, brave, and good-willed my actions have been, are, and will be!

I first decided to try to make sense of my father’s daily actions, which seemed to me before to be so random and chaotic, but there of course is no such thing as chance or chaos, and that everything has its own brilliant rational framework supporting it as the wooden girders—however termite-eaten—to a building. Subtly, though, ever so subtly I watched him, as not to arouse any suspicions. My purpose mustn’t become known, and it did not due to my genius plots! I came to discover, over the span of several months watching, that he tended to hit the pubs on the week-ends, particularly on Friday nights, and that every Wednesday he found a way to attend a ball, or else stayed at home. I had no issue catching word of when a ball may be held, and where, but for one time. It was a time when I thought I was ready, ready to destroy my destroyer-to-be before he had a chance to do such! I decided I would wait until his sun-lighted shenanigans were at rest, and to find a way to kill him that night, as I had checked to make sure there was no ball to be held on that night and that he would have no choice but to remain at home. But he did not return home until late early the next morning, having apparently found his way into another ball-going lady’s bed. For a month following, he always went to a ball on Wednesday nights. I began to fret, convincing myself that he was suspicious of me, and that soon he would know all and that he would have me arrested! I soon relieved my worry, as there was no way any man on Earth could possibly have suspected as I was very stealthy, very subtle, very inconspicuous! I was much too brilliant to be caught! I knew, however, that I must change my plans to accommodate for this, and I decided upon an even more brilliant one: I could disguise myself as a bum, become drinking friends with my father on one of his Friday night outings, lead him in his drunken stupor (as I will drink minimally to avoid becoming too intoxicated to carry out the job) to a place in the wilds of my choosing, and slaughter the wretch while tied helpless to a tree, and then he shall know my true power!

I dressed in rags and covered my face in dirt such as to not be identified by anyone, not even my father. I recall stepping outside, the sky overcast, the color of the clouds seeming the same as the on the very first night, when I realized what I had to do to prevent my destruction. Don’t worry, Lord, I wanted to cry to the heavens, you may soon dismiss your oppressive shroud, as I will eliminate the wretch and bring upon this earth some true justice! I of course could not follow this urge, as though I am not mad and I hope you have already realized this, those around me who are the real madmen shall think me so! I followed the streets to the old familiar pub which might as well have been more home to my father than the house he slept in—were he not felled by drunkenness in an alley late at night, or boarding with some poor woman he met at a ball; these nights also terrified me so, as I feared the wretch had died, taking from me the pleasure of his destruction!—making sure to hobble a bit, hunched to act the part of the bum, making my voice gravelly in the back of my throat as I greeted a few passersby on the way. I threw open the door of the pub, in the very same manner as my father would have done, and took a seat on a stool at the bar next to him. My ingenious disguise of course did not betray me, and he merely thought me a grand drinking partner. I laughed at his jokes and he laughed at mine, and we acted as though we had known each other our whole lives, but of course under this very different persona of mine. When the time was late, I offered that we both go to my home in the woods for the night, as it was a dangerous time of night, much later than even my father had before stayed out, and thieves and murderers were abound about the city streets! He eagerly accepted my proposal, thanking me for my good will.

I led him through the streets, out of town, and into the darkness of the forest. I knew the way by heart, as the place I was heading was a place I had scouted out before, and visited many times in boredom, to imagine the scene soon to be before me and built my anticipation. We made it to the clearing, all right, but the wretch—the wretch!—dropped from his intense intoxication, sprawled out on the grass. I knew I had to wait until morning, as he had to be conscious for justice to be properly distributed, but in the mean-time tied him to the tree I had designated for this purpose.

I eagerly awaited the sunrise, which was a dim experience due to the ever-suffocating clouds of gray above the trees. The old man stirred, and was slightly startled, once he became completely aware, to find himself tied to a tree in the middle of an unfamiliar place, me standing before him with a grin that stretched across my entire face.

“Morning, Father. Sleep well?” I asked sardonically.

“Wh-… what? Where am I?” He paused for a moment, apparently in deep recollection, and then added, “Where’s my drinking friend?”

“You may not believe it, but it is I. I was the bum whom you spent your night with.”

“Impossible! You are as unlikeable as a rat!” He attempted to move, but was again reminded of his bindings. “Why am I tied to this damned tree?”

“You have had me suffer many grievances, Father. You have tried to make a fool of me with your evil blackmail, but who is the fool now? You may know things that only I was ever meant to know, but know them you shall no longer!” My rage, my excitement, my anticipation exploded out of my mouth into this triumphant outburst.

“What?” the old man inquired, shaking, knowing what I meant but refusing to accept it as fact.

I stepped close to him, until I was right in front of him, our chests almost touching, and I leaned my head in to his ear. I whispered, triumphantly, “I am going to kill you, you pathetic wretch.” It did not register within him, even then, what I said, until after I picked up the knife that I had left lying in the grass as I waited for his awakening. “And this, is the tool of my justice.”

Then the wretch began screaming, his voice straining to be heard, crying for help. He saw the look in my eyes. He knew I was sincere, and that I could not be stopped. His screaming stopped at the same realization that made me avert my attention from him to the sky: a ray of light had shone upon the clearing, and only the clearing.

“God gives me his blessing, I see. Do not bother screaming; actually, scream all you like. We are too far from civilization for anyone to hear you.”

The realization of the wretch’s helplessness left his jaw hanging open, unmoving, and tears to roll down his cheeks. I knew now was the time for my triumphant action, and even the heavens had shown me support! I took the knife, first to his hands. I, joint by joint, amputated his fingers, then his hands, then his arms up to the elbows, then the rest of his arms to the shoulders. I was slightly disappointed that I would not be able to do the same with his legs, as they were all that were keeping him up, but I got over it. I sliced off his ears, then his nose, then removed his tongue, then gouged out his eyes and implanted the knife, as a final gesture, into his chest. He was dead soon after I finished with the arms from blood-loss, but it was much too gratifying to stop there. But I hope now you see, that the rewards of my troubles are great! I have not only eradicated the danger my father embodied, but I have also learned much about doing this, and have perfected the art. The end was absolutely satisfying, and I feel so sagacious knowing that I could do it again, just as easily! You must surely now see that I am not mad, my dearest friend, as you have seen into my genius!

The clouds still stretch over the sky, blanketing the earth from God’s perch in Heaven. I am sure he calls for me to eliminate another. My wife, the bitch, shall be next, I think. Hopefully by then, God shall be satisfied and I may travel to you, and teach you all I know of my new understanding of morality and justice!

Most sincerely,
Edward Griffin
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