This is my Desire

*If you are disciplined enough to read this entire piece congratulations. I must say as this progresses you may get lost. When I wrote this, I wrote this from my eyes. My objective was to target your inner sorrow towards people and relationships.*

 

Perhaps you remember the crooked smile on your uncle's teeth, that is if you can remember at such a young age. Beyond the smile. Beyond that ragged, juvenile smile there was a flame of rage rising in his mind. Maybe it is envy, maybe sadness, or it was the sheer imperfectness he saw in you. The line that stood between the two of you. Although such a young age and incapable of comprehending this. Your happy who Ville in your little how town burnt and ripped the smile from your face, as just past its valleys you saw his own little who Ville coming at your happy how town. As your town is burned, you are engulfed by a black smoke that simply won't disappear.

My name is Ned Willows. For my job, I was a fireman. I was skinny as could be, and I loved children. My shift was only during day eight to ten, and I had Saturdays off. My work has made it to a point where money seems pointless. The pay is absolutely horrid, but I save for things, and I look forward to things and this is what keeps me alive. In my mind. I spend the rest of the money on rent. It's worth it though, because without this. I would be dead, in my heart.  I averaged one call a week, I have watched two of my close friends crushed under rubble and debris. I have saved eighteen lives. I have cheated death 277 times. Let me tell you a thing or two of fear. Blindness. If I couldn't see the world, I might as well be dead. A sense is a sense. One you can't afford to forget.

At six thirty-five Ray would awake yawning, and be silenced as he slowly rose from his bed on the stairs and turned right. Ray would stand up, take precisely 13 paces right, then 7 paces to the right again. He would then continue down the stairs guiding himself with his right hand on the rail. At the bottom of the stairs was a beautiful doorknob with textures of crumpled paper melted into metal. Beyond the numbers, beyond the rotations, stood Ray. His hand rested upon that door handle, like a king on his thrown. The slightest of a grin would spread across his face, but from there the door would be opened precisely 75 degrees and Ray Smith Groughs would take a deep breath and inhale the fresh air. The door would shut, and soon he would begin singing a hymn. This is my Desire. That was my wake up call and I'd be out of bed and begin to work.

Ray Smith Groughs, an old man unmarried in the dawns of his seventies, still barely past five feet. Could always be found sitting upon his stairway counting the footsteps of passing people. For him it was a struggle to fit in, for as he sat upon those stairs the rest of those footsteps would look at him as imperfect. What does he see? Ray Smith Groughs, a man whom everyone in the city knew for five seconds at a time in a careless appeal, had an immense grin as I would say hello walking past him on the stairs to my room. Yet past this smile, past his good nature, I always saw an unpleasant darkness in his eyes. It took me at least three weeks to truly understand, but when I looked into his face I would see that vision of the deepest most darkest memories and dreams of man, like what you see when you look straight into your own eyes through a mirror for a reasonable amount of time.

Even occasionally I would tap him on the shoulder as he sung his hymn, and ask him if he wanted to take a stroll with me down to the market, or to a small pub. The one time he opted to join me, he was attacked by two men carrying knives, and stripped of the 85 cents in his pocket as I ran from him doing nothing. Every Friday now I stroll past him on the stares choking out when I say hello, for he gives me a full hearted blessing and a half opened grin from his mouth. The other half cut.

Sometimes I'll sit in the stairway with him and talk about pleasant child memories. But every time he'll tell me a story of his brothers playing with him in a colorful pasture filled with life and wonders. Ray gave to me and asked for nothing in return. Such an innocent man counting foot steps from the darkness of the stairs. 

"Back when I was four my two older brothers ran up and down Mama's garden until there wasn't a breath left in 'em. The smell of mama's biscuits cookin' in the oven and dad's cheerful laughter. Everyday I'd run fast as I could behind Lemar and Jonah, but every supper they'd lock me right out of cabin. I would turn and turn this here door knob right here until they'd open it. One day I was locked out, and a voice from behind began shoutin 'negro boy tell your father and your mama to get out here now, they've got some business to attend to.' My mama took me in her arms and brought her tears across my face, as she began to sing. The angel rays are here to stay, when the sun smiles in my face, I can't complain, but hey, I still miss you. And when the mountains smile, they make me smile for quite some time, I know I'll be fine, but hey, I still miss you. And for now, I haven't felt, a way to feel okay, and I know that, we all hail, to go our own ways, but hey, I still miss you. And I still miss you. She told me and my brothers to run out the back door and run 85 steps without turnin around. I heard gunshots and screams, but my brothers ran past me leavin me alone. I turned around and saw the cabin blazin. I fell to the ground as my eyes watered, filled with smoke and darkness. I didn't blink for twelve days, until finally I rested, opened my eyes. And saw nothin."

Ray a seventy-one year old man sitting on the stairs, laying on the stairs, singing on the stairs. Ray a seventy-one year old man sitting on the stairs with the most heart warming beautiful voice you could imagine. Beyond the dark. There was always light shining in from that stairway. Not light illuminated from the ceiling, not light from the sun, but Rays of light streaming through that crack in my door. In such a dark part of New York, such a dangerous area, never once did I lock my door. Because in my faith from the last thirty years, that light has never gone out. The angel rays are here to stay, when the sun smiles in my face, I can't complain, but hey, I still miss you. And when the mountains smile, they make me smile for quite some time, I know I'll be fine, but hey, I still miss you. And for now, I haven't felt, a way to feel okay, and I know that, we all hail, to go our own ways, but hey, I still miss you. And I still miss you.

I walk down the creaking stairs on my way to work. "Later Ray!" "God bless you. Good luck." Ray would say in the kindest way. At work I take a cigarette, light it in my mouth, and watch people walk past our garage. One young boy walked past and looked into my eyes. He was fascinated, I was even more fascinated by how large is eyes could become. That's when the alarm sounded and I threw on my gear. With my heart racing now, I jumped into the truck with five other men with the same expression. The one you can't honestly see, because you are in the dark. Out the window I watched the road and soon realized this was the way I walk to work. The smoke grew bigger and bigger, as did my fear. The truck stopped and Captain Lee ordered us out. He ran to the other group of men and nodded. He looked at me and suddenly saw my despair. He and two other men tried to stop me, as my glove pressed against a beautiful doorknob. The door swung open and I ran up two flights of stairs screaming "Ray!" There he lay on the ground where he always is, curled into a ball. I grabbed his arm. "We have to go!" "I'm just gonna stay here." "We have to go!" Tears pored down my cheaks and streamed into my sweat. "I still miss her." He said to me, as he felt my face. "Why are crying? Rejoice, I'm gonna see her again Ned! I'm gonna see her!" "I won't let you die! I won't let you die!" Falling to the ground, my eyes water, filled with smoke and darkness. My name is Ned Willows. For my job, I am a fireman. I'm skinny as can be, and greatly love children. My shift's during day eight to ten, with Saturdays off. My work has made it to a point where money is nothing. The pay is absolutely horrid, but I save for things, and I look forward to things. In my mind. I spend the rest of the money on rent. In my heart, I am dead. I average one call a week, I have watched two of my close friends crushed under rubble and debris. I have saved eighteen lives. I have cheated death 277 times. Let me tell you a thing or two of fear. Losing your heart in a fire that lasts fifteen minutes. The angel rays are here to stay, when the sun smiles in my face, I can't complain, but hey, I still miss you. And when the mountains smile, they make me smile for quite some time, I know I'll be fine, but hey, I still miss you. And for now, I haven't felt, a way to feel okay, and I know that, we all hail, to go our own ways, but hey, I still miss you. And I still miss you.