Pierce, Master

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Chapter 2 (v.1) - II

Submitted: August 04, 2017

Reads: 35

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Submitted: August 04, 2017



The Second


The recipient: Stanis Erebus.

On every second Sunday of each month, Stanis Erebus, a man to whom no living thing is dear, pays his generous respects to the thing which is long dead, undead or nonexistent.

On every third Sunday of each month, Stanis Erebus, the man, pays his anticipated visits to the woman, whom he trusts enough to surrender, to give in into her gentle arms, for her merciful consideration. He could arrive at night, emerging from a distance as a broken, battered in a battle, a soldier of Fortune who deliberately endures torture. He would leave her as a man omnipotent, all mighty to resist the pressure. She rarely does him wrong, she's tailoring his suits.

On every first Sunday of each month, Stanis Erebus, a comrade to another man, whom he relishes to satisfy to the best of his ability, visits his fellow who is as silent as the grave to which Stanis brings himself to pray on every second Sunday of each month for all the years to come.

Stanis is a product of his own creation. No god has ever existed to which he might bear resemblance, and, if such a deity had ever been it wouldn't dare to create another one in its own image since that image is drawn in all the shades of vanity premised on the utmost presumptuous tenet: there is no other thing, has never been, and would never be conceived in likeness. No god, such as him, has ever been intended to exist. Those, who choose to worship, seek deities which would reflect their better selves. But, since Stanis Erebus is the man who has a no better self because every given self is merited in an equal manner: an absolute manner; he must be then of his own creation, in his own image; his own god and his own worshiper. And yet, he, most certainly, is not the only one.

The letter was delivered on the first Sunday of last month. The receiver, according to the envelope, was Stanis, yet, the address mentioned in the message did not belong to him.

His silent friend for the very first time in years has left his residence voluntarily, leaving Stanis to himself, unintentionally.

The letter was delivered in the afternoon of that very day. The sun was dreadful. The gentle, white-ish, perfumed paper was laying, melting on the porch for hours. The stiff enwrapment, which was the envelope, bore a little of that which one might call a clue, a hint pointing to the identity of the author.

Stanis touched it, barely, softly, like one might've touched a fragile woman who fell into the loving arms, then he tore it, he tore into as if he had expected it to be what it, indeed, was.

Then he read it.

At first, his tender gaze was clueless of nature the message, his bright eyes simply followed the handwriting so exquisite, that he took a tremendous pleasure and a great delight in reading it.

And again, for the second time, and again, for the third time, and again, for the fourth time, though not for the aesthetic appeal of it but for its very content, whatever that might have been. Approximately four hours after he had laid his pretty eyes on it for the very first time, his hands abandoned the piece of writing, amongst all the irrelevant papers and stationary, on the antique mahogany chest of drawers in the spare study of that mansion.

One must be cautious when it comes to the worshipers of his or her own self.

Stanis Erebus had waited for so long, it became nearly unbearable. In the anticipation for the letters to follow, he almost broke his trivial round of sacred Sundays; that had never occurred before.

But that letter, wasn't it simply a cry for recognition? So little he should've expected.

One hundred days later, though, the second message found him at The Paradisus Hotel.

The trivial round of sacred Sundays:

Stanis Erebus was a man, a leader, worthy of all the praise and admiration that has ever been bestowed upon him.

If we are to recognize the existence itself being merely a string of provoked actions, gathered when concluded into some sense making consequence, justifying the effort, Stanis, then, applied all the principles, laws of the universe, to the best of all possible outcomes. He seldom spoke of his heritage, ancestry or education, whether he came from poverty or wealth, neither would've made any difference, as he once said, he would've chosen to stand by every decision he had ever made. For the reason is the simplest one: he hasn't made a poor choice in his lifetime, he would never have degraded to a level where doubt was an option to consider.

Stanis was approaching his fifth decade, or so he was implying, the man doesn't seem to have any sort of a paper trail backing him up. He does not travel, except for that on Sundays, taking trains; one train, in particular, the first class carriage, the aisle seat, the third-row aisle seat, to be exact. Stanis is indeed a man who emerged on the face of the earth in consequence, not due to any circumstance. How could he ever cease to resist?

He would never despise himself since his pride and honor are equally as valuable to his soul as oxygen and proteins are to his strong body. Many things must be disclosed in order to grasp the vitality of his persona, the necessity of his very presence, wherever that might be. So, he is, now, very much preoccupied, with many tasks, such as his business, for instance. That chapter of his life is rather well known. The story of his rise is taking its origin somewhere across the globe, three decades ago.

At the town he was passing, there stood a jazz club. Stanis hated jazz. A music genre that symbolically and technically was a glorification of chaos and inconsistency, since the main characteristic of it was improvisation, brought up in him a vicious thought, though he couldn't have prohibited himself to enjoy the atmosphere which was beyond comprehensible.

A rear occurrence in one's life was to see Stanis intoxicated; not under the influence of bitter liquor, but under the influence of even bitterer failure. So, he went there, to that club, it bore no name, which was the only sign of character it had inherited from its founder and its former owner.

The main entrance was concealed within the alley which came into sight as a ghastly place at that particular time of night. Trapped between heavy, frequently damp, brick walls of two apartment buildings, it stood somewhat far from the downtown. With no traffic after midnight, an eager cab driver could pick you up in no time from any bar across The Old Hedge Street that name was not an actual one, but on account of the bizarre granite monument of the founder of that very town, the street was rather renowned going by that name. So, that skilled cab driver who was very much accustomed to all the peculiar narrow streets and their tricky little names could deliver your drunken pathetic ass to the club in ten minutes. If you were generous and bright enough, you might have even tipped him on top of what he was charging, so he would've run through some red lights and you'd make it on time for her .

She was the woman whom they all relished to see. She, later, became the woman who belonged to Stanis Erebus. She, later, became a bowl of ashes and the tombstone to which Stanis's second Sundays were devoted. She escaped him but in his heart, she was trapped eternally.

Her act was casual, though very precise. The performance itself was rather symbolical.

Starting at midnight sharp, she was always the last one to get on that petite stage which seemed much broader due to the all-consuming darkness and blackness of it. Poor lighting produced the image not only of broadness but also of a pretentious depth, meaning that the entourage was flawed, so deeply flawed; it generated a paradoxical effect on the audience since the obvious maladroit outcomes of the work of major incompetence provided them with the opposite impression.

Everything and everyone, which and who surrounded everyone and everything else, were the embodiments of all that which they had come to witness at that inky hour. No one seemed to realize any of that; in a weak, artificial ray of a single projector which was pointed to the center of an empty stage, only hanged a microphone, shivering in reflection.

At ten past midnight, four dozens half alive, half dead men and women patiently awaited, impatiently sipping bourbon on the rocks, attempting to escape the heat by not acknowledging its very existence. All of them were mostly silent. Rare round tables enjoyed a companion, or two. For the most part, men and women were alone in their misery. They all  in forbearance. Her entrance, her very presence somehow reflected an era, an era of joyful, mild suffering, amount of which could've been reduced with a magical touch of a woman's strong voice pouring itself out into the masses exhibiting all of the pain, all of the hope and all of the desperate fear to even dare to ever aspire.

It all prevailed as a quintessential example of that particular phenomenon of life: that, which the daring one might name purposeful existence; but not the existence within one's existential merit but existence within the collective approval, mutual justification of every path taken which led them all into that very room; to spectate that moment, no matter how fleeting it might be, how unreliable it might be since she had never promised absolution in exchange for their twenties and fifties.

She didn't raise or come out - she emerged, as if from within the total darkness that stood still behind the radiant ray of an artificial source of light. She stood firmly, making few moves, as if not to disturb all the gazes which were, in a way, perplexed. Her voice, the sound of her, which she produced in restraint, resembled not her appearance but her inner spirit; and all of them, ignorant spectators, failed to behold it.

Contemplating her, Stanis withdrew all his previous ambition aimed to achieve and replaced that with an obsessive mind-drawing belonging to a venturous lover on a quest to win over his lady.

"You will never know exactly how fortunate you are," Stanis said to her, peering into her dark eyes, "You will never learn the feeling that strikes everyone around you. The feeling of not having you, how devastating that is - not to have you, and how meaningless is everything, once one cannot have you anymore."

The light was dim, its shreds scattered all around the place.

The air was stiff.

The faces were in despair, the gazes - distant.

The wine was warm, the bourbon - iced.

Dust rested on the furniture.

She belonged to that place, to the image of it, yet, she resembled nothing. The picture was drawn around her since without her it would have lost all the sense and all the value it held.

"My name is Art" stepping indecently close to him, she whispered.

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