Mountain

We begin in a mountain range beneath a sour sky and dirty brown roads. There sits a tall, middle-aged man no older than thirty-five but because his hair is dark grey, he looks much older than he really is. His clothing is tattered and worn with an old light-blue shirt now faded to a darker shade, torn to reveal a layer of mesh protective gear. His brown pants are long, ragged, and filthy, held up by a leather belt that looks untouched by time. His deep brown loafers seem just as unaged. “Is this where karma puts you?” He mutters. “Your lifeless body in a mountain range unknown to the public,” he adds, then pauses. A silent wind brushes past the grey sky, and leafless trees surround him. A black sun radiates cold heat, sending chills with every word he speaks. He continues, “Where no one can find you…” He said under his breath. “You must be truly alone in this world.” sounding distraught, he continued speaking the same way by saying, “You make me sick. I would swallow my tongue just to make you suffer in hell even more than you already are.” He Shouts. “You were selfish, leaving two boys to fend for themselves.” Projecting as loud as he could muster. “It sickens me that you had no care for what would happen when you left them to their own devices!” After catching his breath, he continued his outburst. “Who would have thought they would grow to hate each other—each with egos that rivaled your own.” A gust of wind passes by it cuts the tension like a diamond knife though paper. “But that same arrogance led to one of their deaths.” Holding back tears, he stops speaking for a moment. Looking around, he sees nothing but dull grey skies, barren brown mountains, and dead trees. He wonders if it was all worth it in the end—if he will ever receive any closure for the traumatic life and misfortune that has beaten him down since birth. Softening his speech, words come out behind the tears. “The day he died, I could never forgive myself.” “I was not the brother he needed. If only he had taken a different path, he would still be alive.” Seeing red, he screams, “Damn you, Father! I hate you and everything you have done to ruin my life!” Then, softer, he mutters, “However… I still love you, Father.” He looks at the tombstone engraved with the name Richard—the object to which he vents all his frustrations.