A Story Beneath The Surface

This story was inspired by the following picture.1

http://allpoetrytoppoet.tripod.com/cgi-bin/photogal/contest004.htm2

As I sit and stare across this room in which I now spend the majority of my time, I can’t help but feel rather disappointed in the secluded life in which I have recently been forced to live.  Now that my dreams have come true, it appears to me as though I should have focused my goals, and my ambition in another direction.3

My home is simply beautiful, the most expensive home that money could buy.  It wasn’t long after I invested the last of my assets into this beautiful home that I was aware of the beauty that I am no longer able to enjoy.4

Sometimes I can’t help but feel completely worthless.  I feel as worthless as the two empty chairs that often captivate my vision.  With nobody here to sit in them, their purpose has become that of nothingness, which is the feeling that I too have felt quite often as of late.5

I listen to the clock ticking away throughout the day.  I know what time it is, but I’ve lost track as to whether it be A.M, or P.M.  I glare across the room at the solid oak door, always closed, longing to make my way to the other side once again.  There was once a mirror hanging on the wall, but I had it removed.  I could no longer bear to look into my own deceitful eyes any longer.6

The flowers on the table were sent to me by a certain someone whose life I supposedly saved.  Unfortunately, many other lives were abruptly ended during that person’s life.  I guess he should be thankful that I was there for him.  He should be thankful for this life of mine, although life is apparently something that he has never taken too seriously.7

The flowers maintain their beauty, although they’ve never once been watered.  My beauty has since faded, my physical beauty, my inner beauty was never a pretty sight to begin with.  The flowers on the table are fake, as some people would think of me.  I try to maintain a certain level of morality, but unfortunately my choice of nine to five’s had taken over all twenty-four hours of the day.8

I long to read the book sitting beneath the lamp on the nightstand.  It is the only book that has ever made me truly feel at peace.  The only problem is that within the several years I studied the books upon the table, my mind has been too corrupted to enjoy the simple pleasures of life, and love.9

I'm growing older by the day, although I'm never really sure exactly what day it is.  This room, along with the other material possessions in which I possess are a constant reminder as to the monetary success that I have accomplished through my hard work and determination.  The door that never opens is a constant reminder that I have missed out on the true key to happiness.10

When I die, I often wonder as to who, or how many people will attend my funeral service.  I wonder if anyone will shed a tear for me when I finally pass away.  I look at the crest etched upon the wall, and ponder what it really means to me.  It was once a sign of triumph, and perseverance, now it is but a sign of how I have been foolish as to my priorities.  It is a sign that financial success can truly corrupt even the most admirable of characteristics.11

The walls appear stained, as is the world in which I live.  The world, stained by my very existence.  Another reminder as to the empty life I have mistakenly chosen for myself.  What hurts more than anything is the lost feelings in which my actions have alleviated completely.12

I will never again feel the love and compassion of another person, who cares for me, and who shows sympathy for me during troubled times.  I have no shoulder to cry on, in times of distress.  I will never know true romance, for I always felt that being wealthy would attract the woman in which I would spend the rest of my life with.  I was mistaken, yet again.13

Most people would look upon this room, and think that whoever lives here must be a very happy man.  People are often blinded by money, and fail to realize that the phrase “Money doesn’t buy happiness” is as true a statement as anything that anybody has ever muttered.  Most people look to personal possessions, and automatically assume that the desire for material possessions, automatically justifies the desire for the life that goes along with it.14

As one would look across the room, from this particular angle, there is something in which doesn’t meet the eye.  Behind the lovely bouquet of flowers, is a loaded gun.  If the door isn’t going to open itself, then I’ve no other choice than to open it myself.  Whether it open from beneath, or from above, is not up to me.  All I know is that I am more than willing to pass through any door, that leads to somewhere other than here.15

I make my way across the room, and grab the loaded pistol firmly in my right hand.  I walk back over to my favorite chair, and look upon this room of deceit one last time.  The split second in which it took me to pull back the trigger of my once unforeseeable destiny, seemed like an eternity.  I started thinking of times past, of things that made me happy, and of things that lead to my demise.  One event stood out more than that of any other.  A day that was seemingly triumphant, but nothing short of a tragedy to those in which it came to effect.16

(A crowd of people sat and watched, with much anticipation.  As the defendant arose from his seat, he was met with the murderous glares of the many people in whose lives have been deeply saddened by his actions.  I stood beside this man, knowing he was guilty, but fighting for his freedom.  The freedom in which he had taken from so many through his murderous tendencies.  Then came the verdict in which I had been anticipating for many months.  The verdict in which I had spent all of my time, and energy to finally here.  Not Guilty.  The courtroom was in an uproar, the people watched as this sickening man was set free to maybe one day take yet another life.  This was my final case.  It was also the moment in which I realized, that I was rich in everything that didn’t really matter.  It was the moment in which I finally realized, nobody would ever love me, for I don’t even love myself.)17

It was also the moment in which I discovered, things are not always as they might appear.  It was the moment in which I realized, a simple photograph, will never be able to truly display the story, in which is trapped beneath the surface.  It isn’t visible, such as the gun, that later stained that once beautiful room, bloody red from the pain in which it had caused.18

The End…   19