The Flavour of Pain

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
The description of pain felt by a man in a surreal world.

Submitted: October 27, 2011

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Submitted: October 27, 2011



It was pain. Yes, it sure was, but unavoidable it became, creeping up each second within every thought, lingering with its peculiar scent of warmth. He wondered, if it actually deserved to be called pain; it seemed more like a soothing aromatherapy of tranquility, yet so much pressure in the air brought tingling flicks through his head, making his head throb, his heart race.


It only took a few breaths for him to realize. He liked sports and adventure, so how could he miss any oddity ensuing within his own body? He craved for more, but he did not know what. He shivered unconsciously, but it was all spontaneous and natural that he almost mistook it as a habit. His head would swirl into a storm of headaches, but who was there to spin the fragments of his mind, he did not know.


He bit his lower lip, he arched his eyebrows, forming wrinkles between them upon his fair skin, and looked down in search for an answer. There was no possible way of doing this, he finally thought; words kept tangled inside his head never to be deciphered, his sweat desperately fell without bearing any fruits, his eyes gazed upon the infinite sky, wondering if such feeling is just the same.


A sigh escaped from his heart to the outer world, not to be heard, despite carrying most feelings that exists in mankind; a flavour worth to devour for those devils hungry for a soul. In search of comfort, it ended up disappearing in thin air, not to be remembered. He leaned his head on his left hand, the other ruffling his own head after a quite gentle self slap on his forehead.


It seemed that it’s been an eternity, but somewhere in the nooks and crannies of the labyrinth, which was no other than his mind, seemed to tell him that it is instead an infinity. He was disoriented, and by it he tattered by every wrong step, splashing into a muddle of impurity, dirtying himself for a reason too vague as an excuse, a confusion he wished was a friendly delusion. Laughter was nevertheless all about, piercing his esteem and integrity, but instead of following their deeds, his pride let him stand, though bleeding he may be, steady and erect with eyes facing to the vast horizon too wide for even the world to imagine its immensity.


He’d yell for help, amidst the tumult of tears, among the barren land he never knew how he managed to reside, and through out those years, and despite all the scarcity of humane care, there was a glint of light protruding in its own linear path, and though it sparkled just enough to see one span of diameter across it, the warmth did not hold in to get kept within, and with its strongest force shot through out the space, embracing him with its warmth.


Ah, the pain is back. It replayed and resounded within him; his head throbbed, and his countenance flushed into a deep red blush; his lips parted, letting a small opening as he let out gasps; he clenched his eyes, disabling sight to its utmost to the scale of a perfect man’s eye sight; the shivers would not let him stand, and crumbling like an old house with it’s broken scaffolding, was left there vulnerable and weak.


But through that torture, he felt warmth caressing him, a touch far more soothing than that of a lover. A feeling that took itself into the innermost part of his heart resonated in its highest pitch, waking him up from the merciless reality, into a dream that was forever lasting (or, has it?) when all he lived was a mere dozen of years. The colours extended more than the rainbow, and the rain before only brought small pecks of rain that tickled him in his comfort, telling him more than kisses can tell about love. And all that pain he felt instances ago faded as the dream took over the reality that favoured him no more.


A smile curled on his rose red lips, as a shimmering tear reflected its colours; a laughter of sorrow and joy was not distinguished.



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