Fatal Impositions

TRIGGER WARNING : Involves su*cide

"I want a good result," his father admitted as he exited the room. The heaviness of the hopeful expectations was gradually overtaking the feeling of emptiness that had been reigning over his heart as he skimmed through the monotonous font that had been used to type the description of Alzheimer's.

As he extracted a tiresome sigh, his gaze shifted to the abandoned canvas that was deprived of his attention. Removing the bulky book from his lap, he shifted his weight to his feet and carried them towards the canvas. His eyes burned with yearning as he traced out the edges with a touch as light as a feather and tears threatened to escape as he picked up the wooden print brush that had been resting on the stout table beside the canvas. A loud slam startled him as he connected the bristles of the brush to the canvas with a gentle stroke and released the treasured object from his grip.

"What nonsense is this?" his mother spitted out vehemently, "Is this what you do all the time? Is this the reason why your score has always failed to be satisfactory? Your father was right," she cussed under her breath as her legs advanced towards him. "Your doltish obsession with this futile activity would never let you trace out your future. You will always remain useless!" The ejaculation subsided as she slapped her son across the cheek. "Art will not pay your bills when you turn forty!" a loud slam of the door followed the venomous assumption.

He sighed defeatedly as his brain registered the message sent by his tearful orbs. Books consisting of information which intensified his grief lay scattered about the bed. Sheets of papers which made him wonder of the satisfying universe he might have become an inhabitant of had he been as free as a bird had occupied the entire area of his resting place. As he walked over to the window, thoughts of how contentment would have been surrounding the air he breathed captivated his brain. If his parents had not forced him to make them as proud as a peacock by visualizing him in a white coat, sitting behind a desk and investigating a patient, he would have been as happy as a clam. His paint brushes would be flawlessly projecting his skills onto the canvas and his imaginations would be exploring all extents.

"But how would their heir sufficiently pay their expenses?" he asked himself rhetorically. His parents' impositions had ruthlessly sheared his dreams and caged his imaginations. They had parted him from the source of sheer ecstasy and were pushing him towards a door he never wished for to be on the wall. His heart crumpled under the pain as he drowned in the sea of grief. His own home felt like a prison and he wished for nothing more than to get released from the cause of overwhelming misery. Taking a deep breath, he carried his feeble legs towards the bureau and extracted a pocket knife from one of the drawers. "It is better to die than to fail to be what I was unwillingly sacrificing my contentment for, and it is easier to quit than to walk on a path I never chose," he thought as he brought the knife to his wrist.

Reviews

[Tabby Mac]

I enjoy your style of writing. The images formed are great. It is like i am sitting in the room as the story unfolds.
Tabby

[jayanth]

One thing that came up in my mind was damn, you are good with words. loved how you elaborate each thing as you mention them , yes of course as a person of against a suicide , connecting to the writing was a problem for me or i may rather specify it as disturbing as it is to the protagonist. But I'm truly a fan of how you play with words. waiting to see more. cheers.

[AnayaJ.]

Thanks for the appreciation :))