by Deborah Gax
In the tapestry of our lives, we often cling to the threads of miracles, legends, and enchanting fairy tales spun by our parents during our tender years. Such tales commence with trials and tribulations, yet culminate in joyous splendor, imprinting warmth in the hearts of children and bright smiles upon their cherubic faces. Young Derek, too, was not an exception to this cherished tradition. His parents would regale him with bedtime stories, wishing him sweet dreams thereafter. A felicitous childhood was his lot, and in his innocence, he believed the familial bond to be nothing short of perfection. Alas, destiny, with its capricious hand, dealt a tragic blow. The grim reaper’s chariot, in the form of a car crash, snatched away his parents’ lives, leaving Derek bereft at a tender age. Abandoned, with none among his kin willing to shoulder his care, he was consigned to the Orphanage, where the bitter reality of this world unfolded before his young eyes — its cruelties and squalor, stark and unrelenting.
Determined not to be dependent on others, he resolved to excel in all pursuits. Embracing his penchant for literature, reading, and writing, he transformed it into his vocation, finding solace in weaving tales of the mystical and the unexplored realms of human imagination, making it his life’s calling. Derek ascended to become an acclaimed author, his books ascending to best-seller status on multiple occasions. Within the confines of his imaginary written world, he poured his soul, relishing the cathartic release it offered and, above all, preserving memories of his cherished parents, never to fade from his heart. Amid his literary success, however, no kindred spirit graced his path — no one who truly comprehended him or offered the tender embrace he longed for. Thus, writing remained his sole refuge, a vessel into which he could pour his ache and seek serenity for his restless soul. To those who scoffed at his dreams and desires, he was met with laughter and dismissal — how abundant, they jeered, his flights of fancy.
His heart ached with each realization of his solitude. Craving connection, yearning for respite from the shroud of darkness that enshrouded him, he searched for an escape. As the wind swept and the soft, immaculate snow adorned the streets, Derek looked wistfully through the window. A vision akin to a winter’s night in Sweden, a symphony of beauty and tranquility, yet it amplified his restlessness. He favored cacophony, for in its raucous embrace, he found solace, assurance of not being alone.
Alas, the very heartache that had served as a fount of inspiration now evaded him. Furious, he cast his writing implements asunder, turning his desk into a battleground for his inner chaos. Fatigue consumed him, a weariness so profound that he began to contemplate death as a deliverance from his predicaments — an unprecedented darkness that had never before loomed over Derek. Yet, amidst the depths of despair, a wry smile surfaced, questioning his desperation, as if presenting this enigma before an invisible audience.
Surveying the litter of scattered papers, a surge of revulsion coursed through his soul, intensifying his wrath against a world that relegated him to this desolation. He brushed back his chestnut mane, sighing heavily and wondering what had altered, whether the world had shifted or he himself. He muttered softly, half to himself.
© Deborah Gax 2023-07-22