Beneath the Garden
Standing with a suitcase outside the house he had called home for more than sixteen years, he wondered why he no longer felt the same pull to that place, the one place in his life that kept him sane was no longer his safe haven, but a form of torture. After his struggle to leave behind his one place of shelter, it not only manipulated his personality but his whole perspective on life and returning to such a place compelled him into a parallel dimension, where his regrets and guilt seemed unapparent. As he became aware of reality, he approached the old wooden shack stranded in a remote desert, which he had once called ‘his home away from home’. He placed three unmistakable knocks, and waited for imminent sounds of footsteps advancing towards the door, followed by the loud but slow footsteps approaching the old hand carved door petrified. The old shrieking door yawned open, there stood the only man who knew him best. They stood frozen, staring into one another’s eyes, not a single word spoken but they knew. He stepped up into the doorway, following him inside as the two approached the bedroom; spread out across the wall was an arrangement of his mother together in the one place she loved, her beloved garden. His father stood inside the room, looked inside and walked away. The room consisted of a bed, a few blankets, an old wooden chair and a thin layer of dust. Although it was quite extravagant compared to the shoddily built he had once occupied. He unpacked his things the few they were, starring into the garden and fantasizing about the life he once had. As the moon’s shadow and a red mist arose across the sky, the man awoke in terror, his bed soaked. He quickly faced the reality of his mother’s death, he had finely escaped the strict guidelines society had place upon him, and he was free form the torture and mistreatment. As he approached the kitchen, he noticed how the dining table had three neatly arranged placemats. Entering the kitchen,...
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