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|12-12-2005, 07:59 PM||#1|
Join Date: Dec 2005
I don't think you can understand how hard it is for me to articulate on this subject. I"'"ll give it my best, you know the 110 percent effort, but remember I"'"m sitting in a stranger"'"s room using his typewriter to collect and express every part of me that I can. I"'"m trying to express and describe everything that I remember as accurately as I can. But I"'"m short on time. My ash is falling out of my hourglass-body.
I know. That last sentence didn"'"t really make any sense to you. Well, I was born a mannequin. Like I stated before, this is where it"'"s really hard for me to articulate:
Well, this isn"'"t a metaphor. This isn"'"t some cheap allegory; this is nothing more than my best attempt to retell the events leading up to my desertion. And now I"'"m doing my best to collect all the ashes and place them as fast as I can into this story, this urn.
Technically, I was born a small, deformed child. '"'Surprise'"' said the doctors, '"'Here is your whopping 5.5 pound, eleven and a half inch stump of a baby.'"' No one wants their child, their genetic mirror, to be that. I was born with no legs and no arms. I was a stump. I assure you; no one looks at a stump-child and feels a sense of comfort because this thing is a duplication of their chromosomes. I"'"m not really sure how my parents felt. But I do know that they burned me. They, themselves, did not burn me. Rather in some scientific laboratory, they arranged an '"'experimental'"' procedure. The details were never really explained to me. All I can really comprehend is my situation now. The ash left over from the '"'experimental'"' procedure was placed inside of a wooden mannequin. Every particle and substance that was once named Munin was burnt and placed inside of this wooden mannequin. I am this wooden mannequin, and everything inside of me is a piece of Munin, but when someone like my parents calls out, '"'Munin.'"' It just seems false. I never knew Munin. Ever since the experiment, my life was some predetermined '"'death'"'. Everything seemed trite and trivial, and as weird as it sounds it seemed like I was born dead, and my only solace was to know that I"'"m really just some living urn. I couldn"'"t find comfort in being an urn, because besides my mannequin body I am a normal kid. And all urns do is sit on countertops, bookshelves, or on unused dinner tables and occasionally people offer some half-recognition to them. But every so often, a family finds it best to go and throw the urn into the wind and just pray that the ashes scatter the earth peacefully. I needed to do this:
When I was seventeen, I started my ritual. The couch was warm and fuzzy. I was sitting in a perfectly reclined position when I heard a sound like sand falling through a time clock. It was my ashes falling onto the couch. My hand reached back and rubbed my spine. There was a small crack. It divided my backside in a zigzag pattern. Thin gray particles covered the surface of the couch. It was me. My ashes were covering the couch. Standing opposite of the sofa, I stared down at the pieces of me that were staining the perfectly upholstered furniture. Those ashes were Munin"'"s; they were the only thing that had been with me from birth. Some children carry small blankets or plush dolls that remind them of youth. I"'"d been carrying my ashes.
Dinner was prepared at the usual eight o"'"clock. Two Tupperware containers were placed on the table. Chicken was in one off-white container, and mashed potatoes were in the ugly olive-green container. I begged my mom to throw that old Tupperware container out for so long. But she seemed to be rather fond of its awkward hue. My mother loved dinner. The tables were usually immaculate. Every knife was perfectly parallel to its partner fork, and there were always at least two plates. One for bread and salad and the other plate was for the main course.
I sat down and felt sorry for my mother. I was about to ruin her perfectly planned meal with my self-centered story. But like I said, I needed to do this.
I pushed my mashed potatoes back and forth across my plate until my vocal chords gained enough courage and voiced, '"'Dad, my ashes fell out today.'"'
'"'What?'"' I stood up and turned around to show him the self-induced injury.
'"'Jesus! How did you get that?'"'
'"'I don"'"t know'"'
'"'Of course, you do. That mannequin was perfectly designed. It"'"s thick wood. How could it just break?'"'
'"'I don"'"t know!'"'
'"'Don"'"t raise your voice at the dinner table.'"' My mother was angry for ruining her planned meal.
'"'Sit down. Son, we"'"ll talk about this after dinner.'"' He realized how upset my mother was becoming,
'"'No, I don"'"t have time to wait any longer. I"'"m seventeen, Dad. We need to discuss this now or never. Because I fell like my past is one big blur. I know nothing about this experiment, nothing.'"'
'"'Munin, sit down!'"'
'"'No! Hear me out for once. I think I"'"m dying.'"'
He interrupted, '"'How are you dying?'"'
'"'Well dad, my ashes are falling out of my body. I have no idea what"'"s going to happen once they all fall out. I might die. I might cease to exist.'"'
'"'You don"'"t understand. We did the best we could.'"'
'"'You couldn"'"t have just accepted me? Or was that too much?'"'
'"'Sit down! Munin, no one wants to grow up without limbs. You can"'"t do anything in life without limbs…'"'
'"'But as a mannequin, I can?'"'
'"'It"'"s the closest there was…'"' His voice trailed off and softened. I hated it when I got worked up. I always added a little rhetoric that came across as a personal attack. My dad"'"s face sunk deep into his lap. He was obviously ashamed of what he had done. It was hard looking at him like this, so I left the dinner table and went to my room.
My bed was warm and soft. I"'"m not sure what most teenagers do after small fights with parents. Some teenagers probably pout or cry, but I had already come to terms with my situation so I gazed at the levelness of the ceiling.
This was it. I realized immediately that my life was gone. My body had turned into an hour class. I didn"'"t want to resort to pointing fingers, but this one was on my parents. I resented them because of everything they did for me. Although, it may have seemed like it was the '"'best thing for me'"'; it really wasn"'"t. And if this life were perishing, then all I had was the '"'afterlife.'"' Sadly that meant nothing to me. Christianity is based on the belief that everyone is born into this world as a sinner. I was born as a sinning stump. But I was killed, and my parents chose to reincarnate me as some wooden urn.
I"'"m sure most men get this feeling around the age of forty-four when they start buying red convertibles. You know, that feeling of life seeping out from the pores of your skin. They can"'"t point fingers; they can"'"t blame their parents; the only thing those men ever do is act obliviously towards their lives and try to rationalize their irresponsible actions by the desperate longing to rejuvenate themselves. I couldn"'"t do that. I had to go. I already cracked my urn and now all I had to do was throw myself into the wind.
If you guys enjoy this I'll post more!
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