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        The sky was a dusty tangerine-rose flecked with specs of lavendar. Aramis watched the sun dip down over the horizon through the dusty, fingerprint-smeared window of The Elbow Room, glad to be out of that hazy heat which seemed to siphon the very life out of him. As soon as he stepped out of his house in the morning he was overcome with a sleepiness that defied explaination. Then again, the days had been unusually hot, only about ten degrees below 100 at six a.m. Still, the sky was something abstract; it had no glass ceiling to tell when sky stopped and space began, and as such, it knew no heat nor cold. And yet, the color of the sky just then, the brilliant display of pastels on that great, infinite canvass, seemed a masterpiece Mother Nature created just for him.
        He crossed his arms in front of him and rested his head upon his folded hands, staring outward. An undeniable instinct was knotting in his gut, twisting and writhing like snakes locked in a mating dance. There was a need bubbling somewhere deep inside, though it had started out innocently enough. At first, it was an idea: a mere suggestion thrown out in casual conversation with an air of such improbability that it may as well not have been mentioned at all. Indeed, he had let it roll off of his shoulders the first time around, perhaps even the second, third and fourth. But with every mouth that echoed that word, with every pair of arms that folded over a chest and swung back and forth, with every softened gaze and hushed voice, he felt the idea develop into a desire. At first, he marveled at the word that brought about such a dramatic change in people. Loud and raucious men would become timid, lowering their heads, their cuss-hardened mouths curling into smiles and thieir wrinkled eyes melting into fond memory. Women seemed to go weak as soon as the word reached their ears, knees buckling and clasping their hands seemingly in prayer, broad smiles and blushing cheeks, elevated voices spilling out jibberish from their pursed lips. For so long, he had been immune to it. When someone casually mentioned it in passing, he felt no lurch in his heart. He felt no fluttering in his stomach. He especially felt no need to burden himself with more responsibilities than he already had, though the women seemed to want to take on those responsiblilities tenfold.
        All of a sudden, however, it seemed every casual mention was a well-aimed arrow directed precicely at his heart. Worse yet, his mind had become preoccupied with the desire to have one of these creatures for his very own. He'd become fascinated with the idea of the creatures, how immensely intelligent they were and the almost exponential rate of growth. The complexity of their physical structure, their ability to not only adapt to their environment, but their inherited ability to change that environtment to suit their needs. There was infinite possibility and all the mysteries of the universe, every question of who, what, when, where and why all wrapped into one tiny and neat package, and the answer to all of those very same questions were answered with merely a glance into the little monster's eyes. It was magnificence, personified.
        There was more power in that one word than all the miracles of God combined. People would more readily die for this than any religious crusade; even atheists would fight tooth and nail to protect their own. He had never desired one of his own, but now, the desire--no, the need to have one to claim as his own shook him to the very core of his existence.
Baby.
        He wanted a baby. Nevermind the wife part; right now, nearly anyone would do. Wine was still wine, whether in a crystal glass or a plastic mug. Nothing mattered to him more than seeing his line continue. His immortality was ensured by the birth of his own child; a piece of him would live on long after he'd left the earth, and the gears of his mind whirred and clicked with wild imaginings of the great accomplishments his child would achieve. Above all things, however, he wanted to experience fatherhood in its most rudimentary form. He wanted to be jarred awake in the middle of the night because of the familiar wailing of tiny lungs. He wanted to experience the diaper changes and the temper tantrums, the spilled food and the ceaceless crying. He wanted the pride associated with that first spoken word and that first balanced step, the thrill of those first tiny teeth and the elated squeal when that little baby of his recognized the face of his father. More than anything in the world, he wanted to be a dad.
        He stiffled a yawn behind his hands and closed his eyes. The sunset was breathtaking, and tomorrow's dawn would be just as stunning. Every dawn is a step closer to the grave; Father Time's ticking clock ceased for no one. How own biological clock had seemed to speed up almost overnight. Still, such decisions take time. Children do not choose their parents; he would have to ensure that the mother of his child was as close to perfect as he could possibly find. Nothing was too good for his child. Nothing. With that thought in mind, he drifted off to sleep, his dreams filled with a million things he would teach his child, and a million things his child would teach him in turn.
 Bleeding Apocalypse · Wed Aug 02, 2006 @ 02:54am · 3 Comments |
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