Хочу
A short story by T. Tsoi Tarasios
I
I guess it was a calm night. Rascal’s headphones deluged emotional cascades into his ears to lyrics which proclaimed it so: “calm night”.
It wasn’t the first night that Rascal had taken a depressed promenade around his town while listening to this song.
Coming to a stop, overlooking a still body of water, Rascal reached for a pack of cigarettes.
Taking one out and lighting it, he wondered if he would bleed out right there and die, leaving a puddle of blood on the concrete -- just another fantasy.
What was wrong in the first place? Rascal looked out across the water as he inhaled another puff, he peered so deeply into the night and yet he still could not catch a glimpse of the future. “What do I want anyways?”
Rascal had to admit: the loathing had a sweetness to it, he figured himself to be Camus -- the myth of Sisyphus or something like that. But where was his boulder? A man like Rascal makes himself a boulder and groans when he has to carry it. He gives himself a toothache and therefore he is ill; he cannot reach the crystal palace.
“Damn the palace,” Rascal thought as he finished his cigarette. “Summer is ending… and I still haven’t done anything with myself.”
Rascal threw his butt in the lake and went home. By some kind of regular miracle, he had finally come to a conclusion: he knew what he wanted.
II
It was only the next day when Rascal found himself subject to the blazing heat of a star named sun.
We are in a… park. Because Rascal had figured that it would be of some benefit to himself should he leave the confines of his house more often. I had brought a man here that perhaps Rascal could begin to obtain the change he desired.
On a wooden bench, underneath a green-leafed maple tree there sat a wise old man: a priest after my own heart.
Thinking deeply of himself Rascal happened upon the idea to talk with this stranger who grinned with joy over nothing in particular.
I watched with great hope as Rascal took out his earphones and began to approach the priest. Before Rascal could start the conversation himself, the priest warmly began: “good morning last of heroes.” Rascal replied, unsure of what he had heard, “What?” “Hello, I said.” repeat the priest.
Speaking in the manner common to those advanced in age, he comforted Rascal with great perception.
“I can see you are in want of something.” Rascal was surprised, “well yes, you’re right.” “You must go to church son,” the priest spoke those words with great reverence -- and he was right to do so of course. Rascal furrowed his brow with suspicion but ultimately did not reply. Instead, opting to walk away and continue his sulking.
***
Next Sunday, all of heaven was rejoicing because Rascal had entered the church. Of course I had all the time in the world to wait and yet I was curious to see what he would do next.
Rascal spent much of his time looking and smelling and sitting down and standing up. He did very little daydreaming, although he did some. I was impressed.
When the very same priest Rascal had met in the park saw him in the pews he smiled. That made me smile, it was sweet.
When Liturgy was over, Rascal didn’t know what to think. “Have I been transfigured?” He wondered. I said: “do you know the meaning of repentance? Is it merely to say sorry? Or does it mean to turn away and to make up for what was lost.” Rascal didn’t answer, but I’m sure he could hear.
As he walked home that afternoon he listened to a song “my blood type is on my sleeve, my number on my sleeve, wish me luck, wish me luck!” What could be more fitting for a man going to war.
III
On a walk by himself, breathing in a cool evening breeze. Rascal recited the prayer of the Pilgrim… one thousand times. But his mind was stuck on the past; along with a fantasy about the future.
The forces of regression and entropy had conjured happy sentiments in his heart. Rascal was not listening to any music. He felt as if he was getting closer to what he wanted.
I watched in sadness as Rascal walked home gleefully that night. In his fervor and ecstacy he had forgotten me.
Sitting in his room, gorged with gluttony and pride, Rascal behaved as if he never stepped onto that holy ladder in the first place.
It was another calm night. At the height of his sin Rascal felt that familiar depression creeping back in. Attempting to numb it with the music he only felt it penetrate deeper into his soul. He was confused and worried. I longsuffered.
The next morning carried a strange feeling with it for Rascal. He wanted to give up. He was struck by his isolation. This confused me because I had always been with him, now more than ever.
“Voices scream from the radio, the telephone is ringing loudly.”
I was waiting for Rascal to realize that he had tried and that he had begun -- in the impossible capacity that a man like me can wait.
After a morning of sulking he managed to grasp hold of some stock of fruits that he had received. I marked his greed but was prepared instantly to forgive.
Then something auspicious occurred. The poor Rascal came to see something very important, something that he had need of: hope.
Despondency and despair were forces of the past; they chained him to evil. But through his own choice he came to think something beautiful “so long as I am alive, there is always hope.” It was quite uncharacteristic of him.
“I’m turning off the tv and waiting for an answer… there is no longer any hope”
As Rascal heard these words over the hypnotic electric guitar through his earphones, he took them out of his ears and disconnected the wire from his phone.
IV
On the march again or maybe just sitting for a rest. Rascal had resumed, more aware than before. But it was not an awareness which brought joy immediately, rather it was one which intensified pain and sorrows.
Yet Rascal knew that he was deserving of everything --as did I. As time went on, he moved from a point of pure pain to a cocktail of joyful-sorrow. This was in correlation with the degree to which he appreciated that his sadness was a necessary step towards that which he desired.
“Close the door behind me, I’m leaving.” Rascal swore never to look back. To climb a ladder to heaven, doing so is a pre-requisite. I knew that he would, but the resolution is more important regardless.
***
When Rascal came upon another traveller on his journey, some thoughts or other would enter his mind. I was allowing him to be reminded… of what he swore to leave behind and of the terror; therefore also of the future --of what he wanted.
Rascal would struggle with these temptations. But then he would remember how little time he had left, or what he was here for, or simply shake it off. The angels would call to him: “I dare you to sing along.”
Rascal listened and did sing along. Despite this he no longer had his earphones in during his late night walks, nor did he puff profane incense. Instead, he listened only to his own prayers “I’m a slacker, mama, mama” he cried to the mother of God.
V
So did he achieve it? Did the Rascal get what he wanted? I think it’s quite obvious. But what was the significance of the change? That is a question for you.
Rascal fell again, without doubt, yet his stature was forever altered. When Rascal cried, so did I. Yet I cried tears of joy while his were of sadness.
In all this suffering, he was no longer depressed but rather revitalized. In him, so were a thousand others, perhaps a nation… perhaps a world. Everyone desires what Rascal had desired, even those who are not aware of it.
What did Rascal want then, he wanted change; “I want changes.” Where the past is laid to waste and the future is always made concurrent. This is how I live after all. Who am I? Rascal had asked that once… no one important. In crude terms, I am the director of some kind of movie. A real movie.
Some movies spark revolutions and others involve revolutions. Rascals have to fight revolutions in their own hearts before they can lead revolutions against hell. Oh well… I know what I want.
Thanks for reading, please let me know any of your thoughts or criticisms of this piece. I’m still a highly novice writer if that wasn’t abundantly apparent by the reading.