this is something that i wrote a couple of years ago, although the original version was lost when my harddrive crashed, and this one isn't quite as good. you'll get the picture, though...

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my memories were like dust in a sunlit room. tiny particles of myself floating aimlessly, colliding with disembodied molecules of things that i used to have. things i used to need. things i used to love. as my life became stagnant i settled to the bottom and grew comfortable with my discomfort.

i stopped going to work and finally was fired, and settled into a nice little rut. eventually the tedium of my existence and the requirements of modern life necessitated me finding a source of income, so i took a job with the old man who lived in the house on the hill, across the street.

he told me of his greenhouse, where the plants thrived on sadness and animosity. he had taken care of this garden for years while stuck in an unhappy marriage, using his misery as fertilizer, and the garden grew thick and lush with healthy green plants, a shadowy reflection of the man who tended them.

when his wife passed away the man was overcome with feelings of freedom and self-confidence the likes of which he hadn't felt since his youth, and the plants suffered and wilted. when the man told me this during one of our rare encounters i asked him if he needed someone to tend the garden for him, someone miserable like me so that his plants could grow again. i would work for little money, i told him, and so he agreed. this would, he figured, free up his own time for carousing the town, looking for a new love with which to spend his life.

and so it came to be that three times every day i would walk across the street and into the greenhouse full of plants, and unleash my torment upon them. in the morning i would wake up early, grumpy from my lack of sufficient sleep, and enter the greenhouse seething at this new occupation, the stone around my neck. i would grit my teeth and breath heavily, clenching my fists and looking for something to punch. for lack of anything better to hit, i hit myself. first in the leg, then the stomach. then i would rain blows upon myself head to toe, splitting my lips and bloodying my nose.

late, in the afternoon i would conjure images of disaster in my mind; earthquakes, floods, the aftermath of destruction; and i wept silently into the soil, soaking the roots with my tears. at night i would return a total mess, somewhere between suicidal and homicidal, and i would scream my rage into the night.

after a week or so of this the plants began to perk up, and some were even growing larger. the old man didn't come around much as he was keeping busy with his newfound freedom, and i came to identify with the plants as my only friends. their buds would open and their branches would stregthen when i came, and then droop as i left.

eventually the old man found a new mate, and he was happier than ever. he asked her to marry him. she said yes, and he was overcome with joy. because his search for a new wife was over he came around more and more often, and the plants were beginning to die again. as such i had to try even harder to keep them healthy. i thought dresden and saigon. i thought of san fransisco and pompeii. i thought of all those innocent people, dying for no reason, and it filled me with sadness.

when the wedding came the old man thanked me for all of my help, and asked me to watch his garden one last time before he moved away with his bride. they were, on the altar, a positive of happiness.

i, on the other hand, was the negative. i found myself unable to separate the fake emotions i employed at my job from the real ones i felt at home and in public. i would cry at the slightest inconvenience and burst into a rage at the sight of a dead puppy on the side of the road. my skin was constantly brused and blood would rush forth from my nose and mouth with little warning.

something had to be done. and so, with my elderly employer away on his honeymoon i made the trek to the greenhouse one last time and closed the door. once there i worked myself into a frezied rage, screaming and crying and thrashing about until i was exhausted. then, finally, i drew a widening red line down the length of my forearm, and it trickled out onto the leaves and stems and branches and dirt.

you'd never seen such a pretty garden.

[edited by - syn_apse on July 22, 2003 8:32:01 PM]

also, i would recommend stanley donwood. his stories were the inspiration for the above. he has many written on his website at http://www.slowlydownward.com