Find out the Truth

A Story by Damien

A work in progress, The story of a boy explaining why he became the evil person he became.

I would love to begin this story with an opening scene, full of lush grasses that stretch for miles over small hills that break from each other where gentle rivers run, carrying down the last of the winter dew from the far off mountain tops. I would give anything to speak of the pine trees beyond the meadows, of their tall strong, still branches, climbing ever higher in a contemplation that we as humans will never understand. I want to only whisper to you this beauty so that I don’t interrupt the specific songs that travels from one bird’s beak to another as they answer in a hidden language full of complexities and perfected harmony. I want to describe to you the wonder of pine needles crunching under your bare feet. The feeling of a thousand tiny rotted leaves breaking and sending a tingle through your feet to remind you that you are never quite alone in this place, that there is life here, and with each breath you take, you share the same air as all those around you. And ah the air! I would speak for hours if you let me of the air in this place. Crisp and cool as icy water. the flow is swift, yet soft. The breeze may raise and fall, but the trees remain undisturbed. They love one another, embrace one another, the trees and the air. The harshness of exposure becomes something more like emancipation as you travel through the thickets of pine and bramble, into yet another clearing where the sun may smile once again on your chilled hands, and the warm grass may welcome you into it’s soft sweet scent.

Yes that is where I would like to begin my story, for to me, there is nothing more free and liberating. But liberation in a tale must first be brought down by subjugation, and the reader of course must know what it is to be subjected to a fierce array of conviction and destruction in order to feel any remote empathy to those who feel strongly when faced with a chance of freedom.

So for now, to start this tale proper, must take you back to the beginning. To the childishness of one who has not seen pain very much nor has he himself felt it, and yet with all of his heart and mind (if the two for him were ever truly separate) feels the strongest of empathies for any living thing around him. This is undoubtedly the beginning, for what else could wicked selfishness grow from if not extreme empathy?

The boy at this moment is watching in the grass the movements of small birds no larger than a woman’s fist hopping along the grasses searching for seeds and bugs. The child is nearly four years old, and with that height, the long stems of the grass shroud him completely as he stalks these creatures with curiosity. As other boys may get as close as possible to pounce and snatch the animal, or from a distance attempt to injure or kill the thing with a stone or pellet, this boy is only creeping up on them to have a better look. He wants nothing more in that moment than to shrink down to their perception and become a bird himself. He inspects the small black rims adorning their eyes, and the growth in size of each feather as the rows upon rows engulf each other down their bodies. He peers with deep longing at the shining plumage, lined in striped patterns at the tip of each wing. The movements of these birds are of the most importance to this boy. The quick jerks of the head of one bird to another, or the way one will bury it’s face, pecking the ground as the other looks about for predators. The boy is most impressed. As he stares, it grows as if he is watching a well rehearsed play that he’s seen for the dozenth time.

“Yes exactly. That was executed perfectly!” He thinks to himself. He knows, even so young, that these creatures have their own ways about them. Their language comes naturally. They are so much more simple than the actions of his own kind. A person may act one way and mean something entirely different. It was always the same. It made no sense any time it was observed. It was as if some illogical thought guided them to hide in plain sight. He never knew what they were trying to accomplish. It never ended in anything but disdain when he would bring up the fact of hidden meanings being so apparent. He even began to silence himself when he desired to question an adult for fear of aggressive looks and a spark of vicious nature.

‘Humans can do what they wanted,’ he thinks, peering at the birds, realizing his thoughts have caused him to stop tracking their movements, ‘animals are much more...’ He doesn’t not know the word he searches for. It is a warm and happy feeling. Something he rarely, if ever, felt around an adult. He doesn’t know what it is, but he knows where to find it, and for a child of four, that is all that matters.

As this child indulges in the what a grassy yard has to offer him, I will take the time to explain his life to you. He has never known any other home than the cottage he and his small family share out in the country. He knows very well of the surrounding town and the faces of each person. Most are warm-hearted and good-natured people that share with him candy in exchange for his wide-brimmed smile. To picture this town is to imagine what might happen if the American architects of the Old West were to finally take notice of the Native American's ingenious use of the circle, and begin to construct for themselves great tall and rounded buildings with all of the clever use of hanging signs and pointed tin roofs. This community is all that is left of a great war. Where there were deep set cobble-stone roads, there is now only thick chalky dirt paths cut out by the workers and buyers of the town. Though these buildings have undergone great repair and reconstruction, there are only a fourth of the remaining buildings, and each has met great decay in the years they had gone uninhabited. Despite the disrepair of the place, the long rectangular main alley, and surrounding little houses are bustling with contentment and satisfied lives. Despite the instinctual need to fight that all people possess, I believe that this, a peaceful community, is the true identity of human happiness. Bliss is never as much of a terrible thing as others are led to believe.

To this boy at least, that was entirely true.