Of Which We Fall
Caleb Wu
©
Copyright 2021 by Caleb Wu
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Life
is a bitter journey, some climb higher and higher, only to fall,
while others, perhaps more fortunate; walk in a straight path with no
end, a slave to their own choices. Others plummet, like a broken
bird, they fall and break their legs, so as too never get up again. I
was one of those who could never get up. As a child, I had many
dreams, each one racing around
in my head, like splendid visions. But dreams are a lie, life is
bleak, and what are we but mere slaves, strung up on it and dragged
along. My years on the streets had toughened me, and the
reality of
being homeless had long since wrapped itself around my mind. Like a
serpent, it had squeezed all hope out of me, until I was nothing but
an empty shell, a husk of a person. Each day on the bustling streets
of New York seemed bleaker then the last.
Snowflakes,
small, white and cold to the touch, drifted lazily down onto
the streets, coating everything in a pristine coat of white.
Sheltering myself from their chilling bite, I propped my threadbare
jacket on top of my head. Winter was especially cruel this year, with
winds howling and ripping, clawing and sinking their freezing
unforgiving teeth into my skin. Stumbling, I made my way past
buildings laden with snow, until I reached the dark alleyway I called
home. Settling into the corner, I plopped myself in between a
crevice, the cold and rough embrace welcoming to my thin frame.
Despite the screaming of the wind, and the persistent pelting of
snow, I was mostly untouched. Sinking deeper, I closed my eyes and
sighed. My breath escaping my weary body, like a miniature cloud.
Fumbling blindly, I reached into my coat pocket, grasping the packet
of crackers I had saved. Famished, I tore the thin plastic apart and
greedily gulped the contents down, crumbs clinging to my beard.
Combing my hand through my beard, I collected as many crumbs as I
could before tipping my head back and pouring those precious bits
down my throat. My mouth watered as I stared in disbelief at my own
hands, the empty packet taunting me. Preserving what little heat was
still clinging to my body, I parked myself into the tiny crevice and
stared at the sky above me. My life was miserable, and heaven itself
seemed to know it. The icicles, glistening, seemed to mock me,
dripping bits of water I could never catch with my parched and torn
lips.
I
angled my arm to use as a makeshift pillow, and prepared
to sleep. To my surprise I felt something jutting out, poking my arm.
Reaching out, I closed my hands on a bottle, roughly the size of my
hand. Fingers wrapped around it, I cradled the small bottle in my
grip. Despite the freezing temperature, the bottle wasn’t cold
to the touch, but was almost warm. Squinting, I struggled to read the
words engraved into the glass. I couldn't seem to understand these
words, their angles jutting out aggressively, and the symbols
intertwining with one another. My cautious nature, honed from years
on the streets, seemed to scream out “DON'T TOUCH IT!!”,
and “THROW IT BACK!” I knew something about the
mysterious bottle wasn't right, but my tongue watered and my stomach
screamed. Sitting forward, I decided to take a whiff. Unscrewing the
rusty cap, I stuck my nose over the opening. Like the smell of rich
honey and scented sugar, the waft overcame me instantly. Recoiling,
my nose was
filled
with these scents
momentarily. Nothing of this magnitude
had ever graced me with their presence. Hesitantly, I touched
the bottle to my lips, tipping it back slightly, allowing a drop to
escape into my open mouth. Like glowing charcoals, it burned my
throat, but was instantly replaced with a cold, soothing calm
sensation. My eyes rolled back into my head, and I tasted turkey. The
taste was exquisite, and gravy dribbled down my chin. The tender meat
was
seasoned
well, and my stomach yearned for more. As I closed my mouth, the
freezing shock of winter hit me, and I awoke to find myself back in
the alley clasping a bottle, my teeth gnawing. Dejected, I licked my
lips, but found nothing but blood and bits of dead skin. Dismayed, I
put the bottle down and lay to rest. My mind, however, egged my body
on and so I found myself picking the bottle up again and staring at
it. I promised myself just one sip, and tipped it back again, greeted
by the same hot and cold sensation.
Now,
I found myself on a beach. The sun gleamed at me, and the soft sand
enveloped my toes, tickling them. Walking forward, I found myself
filled with newfound strength, as I strode to meet the coming tide.
The waves caressed my thighs, and the distant squawking of seagulls
greeted my ears. I started running, I didn't know where, but it
didn’t matter. Striding purposely to the retracting waves, I
tripped and fell, and woke up in the same dark alley. My hands
trembling, the bottle clutched in my arm, my grip like steel.
Desperation clouded my mind, seeping in like a deadly toxin, and I
furiously unscrewed the lid again. I swallowed the rest of the drink,
not even pausing to acknowledge the rich taste. Gulping frantically,
I awoke to the singing of birds, and atop a mountain of bills. Their
crisp edges digging into my back. Greedily, I grabbed fistfuls of
them, stuffing them into my jacket, and pockets, until they too
overflowed. Continuing in a frenzy, I grabbed and threw fistfuls of
the bills, before I realized I was starting to sink. As my torso was
consumed
under the mountain, I relaxed myself knowing I would wake within any
second, similar to my other fantasies. Hoping to hasten the process,
I closed my eyes, but realized I could still feel the weight of the
bills in my pockets, weighing me down like anchors dragging me
farther and farther. Realizing that I hadn’t yet woken from
this nightmare, I opened my eyes to find that my neck was now
submerged. Panic, like a wave rushed over me, as I began struggling,
yelling and peddling, I tried to fight, but to no avail. As I slipped
under, I felt the familiar sense of déjà vu, and felt
the cold embrace of the winter winds, and so I waited to awake.
The
boy and his father walked down the streets of New York hand in hand.
Despite the chilling winds, and temperatures, they remained warm and
comfy in their fluffy jackets, and oversized pants. They purposefully
strode forwards until the boy stopped his father, tugging at his
jacket, and pointing at something in the alleyway. It was regular
that the streets of New York were filled with the homeless, so the
father paid no heed to the foolish antics of his son. Being a child,
the boy was filled with curiosity and ran towards the alleyway,
something must have caught his attention. Approaching the body, the
boy stared at the shrunken corpse of a man, who was most definitely
dead. The foul scent however, was drowned out by the sweet waft
coming from a bottle clasped in the man's arm. Reaching gingerly, the
boy pulled the bottle out of the man's grasp, and stared at it. How
strange, it wasn't even opened, the contents untouched. As the boy
pocketed the bottle, his father caught up to him, and after rebuking
him for his careless actions, he planted a firm grip on the boy,
steering him away from the corpse, and back to the street. As they
continue their walk, the father continues to rebuke the boy. The boy
however, doesn’t hear a word of what his father says, instead
delving on the bottle, his hand anxiously rubbing it. The contents
seem to call to him.
I
am currently in Grade 11 at Steveston-London
Secondary School. I composed the
original draft for this story during one of my English classes during
a free writing session. I was heavily inspired by the Disney
Short: The Little Match Girl, and drew concepts and ideas from it. I
refined this story a bit, in preparation for my submission. The
title is meant to point towards the flaws in our human nature,
mainly, greed, lust and selfish desire.
As a child, I enjoyed reading a lot of
fictional books, and was often inspired by events that transpired in
those books. I am an avid watcher of movies as
well, and
often immerse myself in my own plots and stories, many of which
present themselves in my own creative writing.
(Unless
you
type
the
author's name
in
the subject
line
of the message
we
won't know where to send it.)
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