Friday, March 16, 2012
He was a misanthropist at heart. No one could blame him really. Tourists quickly lay blame on his unfortunate lineage: he was one of a multitude of bastards born to prostitutes that strutted their wares in the Red Light District of Amsterdam - Rossebuurt to the locals. But it was far from that. He was a misanthropist because of them. Them that came to flagrantly ogle the merchandise, salivating at the liberal hedonism of it all; them that came to smoke a pipe or two in any one of the legal cannabis and hashish shops that littered the city. Name your pleasure, we got your treasure.
Yes, his city played host to the young hormone-enraged spring breakers and old, scrofulous autumn fakers. Whereas the young were unabashedly uninhibited, wearing it proudly like a birthright, the old came under cover of aliases to experience fantasies considered too taboo and inappropriate for their reputation and age. They came in search of freedom. To be free, feel free. Free from responsibilities and a chance to taste the forbidden; that which turned on their elemental rawness, making them feel young and alive once again. Yes, freedom, that’s what they sought. Freedom from rules that said you couldn’t smoke some good shit and not get jailed for it; freedom where sex for sale was not frowned upon and seen as a dirty little secret that could get you crucified by the constipated conservatives that ran their world. This little microcosm was his life, his mother’s life, and they all wanted to be a part of it, even if it was for just a week or two.
He watched them walk by, smoking their cannabis on their way to, no doubt, some bar. Some needed to get just a little stoked or drunk enough to take the edge off their fear in order to get a taste of his city. Years of ingrained moral preachings weighed heavily like pillories around their necks and no amount of insouciance could hide it; at least, not from local discerning eyes.
But tonight he wasn’t interested in them, tonight his mind was on the other. Up until now he thought only he and his gossamer-she were the only ones that existed of their kind. But he was wrong. There was another, and this young, healthy boy could prove to be a formidable opponent. For now, he’d let him be. He was not ready. He'd give him time to hone his pathetic abilities, and then he was coming for him.
He rose from the bench and started heading home. He passed a drunk who had slumped forward on the street corner, his loyal dog resting beside him. He flicked his cigarette at the man, the lit embers landing on the drunk's unreactionary face. Yet he raised his head to see who had committed the crime. He eyed the boy and quickly grabbed his loving companion, "Shh, shh, boy, it's alright." His eyes pleading that he wanted no trouble.
An excerpt from a WIP.
Photo courtesy of Deviant Art
Posted by rebecca