| FELO-DE-SE |
| "Mmmm, and you, did you kill yourslef for love?" "What, I? Heavens, no! I am an enlightened man; I do not bother myself with such trivialities. No, master Amos, I did not die for love, but for an infinitely more practical cause: money! I had invested all of my funds, as well as the savings of various acquaintances, in a ship, which was intended to start trade between the colonies and Europe. Unfortunately, as ships sailing from the New World were no longer under the protection of King George, they fell prey to pirates. I lost everything; my creditors were not sympathetic, and my partners even less so. Everyone came after me at once, and I was threatened with an interminable internment in gaol, as well as bodily harm. I chose the easy way out, and changed my status from debtor to felon-de-se, a suicide, which in England was a felony, and all of whatever remained of my holdings would have been forfeited to the crown. As an American, however, it all went to my surviving next of kin; including my debts. Unfortunately, I had not forseen that when in my fright I committed that horrific act. It all happened one morning; whilst shaving, I nicked myself and, when I saw the blood, was so overwhelmed with a panic that I just decided to dig in deep and cut my own throat. What a painful, bloody mess that was. It took me forever to succumb as I choked on my own blood and gasped for air, until I finally bled to death. Never cut your own throat, my boy, ghastly business that." "Uh-huh. Say, you mentioned Halloween; that's not really from your time, how did you know about that?" "I know quite a bit! You forget that I have existed since my original lifetime, and have spoken with many spirits who have walked down these lonely roads--particularly on All Hallow's Eve. I know of your horseless carriages, your electric torches, and so on. There is one thing from your modern world, however, which confounds me; so unnatural it seems, as if it were the very handiwork of Old Scratch himself." "Oh, and what might that be?" "Turkey bacon." "Hmmm." "And you, dear boy, why would you seek to cut short the thread of your young life from Clotho's loom?" "I am sick to death of this life, with all of its' misery and suffering. No one understands me, least of all my family, and everyone that I open up to either spurns me, or takes advantage of my emotional nakedness." "Do your parents beat you?" "No." "Have they ever shut you out of their home or denied you food or clothing?" "Well...no, but they always give me static about the clothes that I do wear, or the style of my hair, or even the things that I like to read ot listen to. They complain about my piercings and my tattoos all of the time, and they don't like my friends." Quirk, puzzled, looked at the boy in wonder. "Pierced and tattooed? Blast me, my boy! Only savages and seamen tattoo themselves, and where are these piercings of which you speak? Your earings?" "Ummm, yeah, and then some...anyway, they always give me a hard time, and we argue constantly. Besides that, I want to stop all of the pain." Quirk stared at the boy with a quizzical look on his face, his brow all furrowed, eyes squinting, and his mouth turned into a slight frown. "And what pain might that be, pray?" At this point the boy's eyebrows arched upwards with excitement, as his dark brown eyes lit up, and his long, bony, but delicate-featured face stretched into a semi-confident grin. Amos, almost glad for an audience, exposed his darkness with the pride of a parent debuting a newborn child; reciting his litany of dolor with dramaturgic zest. "The pain of living, that pierces my heart, exposing the black maw, which swallows up my soul's calls for love and understanding, which fall into the unfathomable abyss of despair that resides at my very core. That same despair which scowls back at me as my ego pines for acceptance and recognition from my family and peers." "I see," said the spirit with a quiet and pensive tone. How does one react to such a statement? He must not lose this boy. He knew that whatever he said now must carry proper import to make him see that this was not theatre, or some literary romance, this was the gravest of issues he was toying with. The fate of his very soul lay in the balance, and it was incumbent upon Quirk to get the boy to understand this completely. He looked at Amos with a thoughtful expression, and with his thumbs stuck in his vest pocket, he began to respond. "I do not know what to tell you, dear boy. You seem to be well dressed," and here he paused for a moment to take in Amos's lanky frame, with his snug black leather pants, and his billowy black shirt, which looked like sails on a death ship bound for the Underworld. His hair was short, around the sides, but with a sweep of black bangs, streaked through with a shock of red, which fell into a part on the left. His eyes were deep set, soulful, appeared to be lined in black, and...were his lips painted as well? Quirk sighed, and qualified his previous statement, "...after a fashion; you are well spoken, relatively fit, and with a passing knowledge of the gentle courtesies. Someone has evidently cared for your well-being and edification, which would imply some degree of love and devotion. Perhaps you are possessed of a saturnine humor, and require more attention than those around you have the time, or the wherewith, to afford you. The fault for which cannot be justly assigned to anyone in particular; it is perhaps a whim of the Creator, a challenge for all of you, from which you can learn and grow in your understanding of one another. You must all learn to deal with this, but you especially, dear boy. If you cannot, well, who am I to infringe upon your free will? Believe me, however, when I tell you that neither myself, nor Mumbles, here..." Again, as if on cue, there was another grunt of affirmation from under the earth as Quirk pointed to his companion's unhappy resting place, though he kept his gaze upon Amos so as not to lose his attention, as he continued, "...have found any peace or satisfaction from our own acts of self-annihilation. Pleae don't throw your young life away for this!" Pulling his thumbs out of his vest pockets, he grabbed at his ensanguined cravat and pulled down his collar enough to expose a nasty gash as he groaned with such misery as only a doomed spirit can muster. The boy's eyes almost doubled their usual size at this terrific getsure. |