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Albert Camus Rip Off Piece #187956
Matthew Grisom O'Hairy | | | | | |
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It was, for all intents and purposes, a predictable
day. I had finished my shopping in the local arcade,
and proceeded to the graveyard to visit my father
(RIP, twenty years). The air was cold and damp, and
the fast-decaying remnants of a snow-fall lay
scattered about. I had laid the flowers and was
sitting in a typical state of half depression, half
meditation, when she first appeared to me. It may have
been the beautiful finality of the crypts and
crucifixes that surrounded me, then again it may have
just been my head - I do not know, and that is
something that seems to have plagued me for most of my
life. A sort of automatically hazy indecision in the
face of something monumental.
She lay alluringly atop a lichen-smothered vault,
such sweet temptation to decadence, covered only by a
black velvet robe, and accompanied by that
distinctive, sickly perfume that warmed the air and
soothed my cold body. Her scanty state of dress
afforded me luxurious looks at her cold, pure- white
skin. I could, perhaps, have used the word snow to
describe her complexion, but snow is so corruptible -
her white seemed like it could never be violated. But
at the same time, I wanted to smash her perfect body
until it was no more than a bloody pulp - I felt
challenged by such beauty, you see, my brain does not
allow for anything to supersede me as first place. It
has taken 30 years, but I finally realise I am a
victim of my culture. I have an insatiable desire for
self prominence, and will stop at nothing to attempt
to satiate this need - my upbringing will not allow
anything else. At the age of 18, I was alarmed at this
desire, I even tried to stem it, to no avail. My peers
own egotism would not allow anything but pure male
egotism in me. At the age of 20, I hoped that
adulthood would cause it to pass, but at the age of 25
I found the force within me to now be innate, and
totally irreversible.
I shook my head and stood up. She stared at me;
beckoned with lithe, slender fingers. I turned away -
to give in to such temptation would be a defeat both
morally and in terms of willpower. I ran and ran until
I reached home, and went to sleep with the light of
midday pouring through my curtains.
I did not see her again for many weeks.
A sharp jolt pushed me forward into the bar, and I
turned round to see the cause. There appeared to be
no-one willing to own up, principally because they
were too busy laughing openly behind their pints. I
gathered up my round, and started to pick my way back
to the table where my friends and I were sitting.
Another jolt; just before I had reached the table,
causing me to tip all five drinks over the floor.
There was a cacophony of laughter from behind me, and
my associates all stood up and started to shout
angrily at me. I was a clumsy fool. I sat in the
corner, where two benches met, and buried myself in my
half full pint glass. A woman who I had known once
upon a time, and had almost loved, sat down next to
me. I was pleased to have someone new to talk to, and
turned towards her. However, a great bulk of
testosterone sat down between us and immediately
attached himself to the woman like he had known her
for years. I knew for a fact he hadn't, as he was my
best friend, and instead of opening my mouth, I slunk
deeper into the well worn cushions and closed my eyes.
The words stuck painfully in my throat. For no
apparent reason she came into my mind, with her easy
way out. She was even more beautiful than before, I
wanted to bite her flesh like you would the most
succulent, juicy fruit, and continue to experience
that lovely, enveloping, sinking sensation for
eternity. No. Where was my self-control? I got up
immediately and once again ran home. She plagued me
not for a number of weeks. I could tell she was
waiting for the right time to pounce, she knew I was
weakening.
It happened at my mother's house. Although my mother
has no recollection of any events of her life, I force
myself to see her weekly, and weekly she stares at me
as one would stare at a painting you find
incomprehensible. Every visit depressed me greatly:
she and her unkempt house were like empty shells, from
which all life had flown. I let myself in and called
out to her. She replied by asking who I was. I sat
next to her and told her of my week. She simply
replied with a puzzled, scared face. I told her how my
week had been. She simply blinked and moved awkwardly
in her favourite armchair. To her I was little more
than a burglar. I got up to make coffee, and she
followed me to the kitchen. As I switched on the
kettle, I noticed my mother take a knife from a drawer
and approach me with it pointed at my throat. She
urged me to get out before she killed me. If I was not
a man, I would have cried. Instead, I looked around,
and saw only an ice white figure smiling knowingly in
the doorway. I panicked and rushed into the street. As
I sprinted, I could just make out her lustrous outline
over my shoulder. No matter how fast I endeavoured to
go, she still managed to catch me. I ran all the 7
miles home, but still she managed to keep up without
breaking into little more than a pacing stroll. I
leaped upstairs, and fell into bed. I was sick many
times from my exertion before I went to sleep, but as
soon as I closed my eyes, she was there again, filling
my field of vision with her slender, graceful frame.
For a few minutes I just lay there, and convinced
myself that I was too asleep to move, but my morals
soon took control and I sprang upright. I needed to do
something in order to banish this dark temptress. I
got into my car, and drove to the nearest brothel,
whilst I played loud music on order to clear my head.
I needed simple, carnal pleasure in order to stop
these thoughts. I hurried in and straight into a room,
where a woman lay lengthways on the bed, dressed in a
brief night-gown. I stared at her as she lifted off
the garment and flung it aside. I noticed that her
hips were slightly too wide. I noticed that her nose
was a millimetre too long; that there was a small
bruise on her thigh, that her true hair colour was
showing at the roots. I turned from her in dismay, and
straight into the arms of my lover - the one thing
that provided me with sanctity, solace and sanctuary.
This time I did not resist. I pushed my face deep into
the black velvet, I allowed her sweet, sickly perfume
to pollute my nostrils, and allowed my fingers to
violate every inch of flesh. I opened my eyes, but all
I could see was her scarlet lips spilling over my
body.
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