Followers

Mighty Jacksparrow is an Earth-based sub-intergalactic blogger who enjoys writing and in the same time entertaining his ever-amusing will-kill-to-read fans with sensationally hilarious and at times dramatic musings. This blog offers endless ideas and results; they might be charming most of the times but could be offending in some others. Therefore, it is always noble to remind that if you enjoy the pieces, carry on reading, but if they upset you, do quietly leave like the evening breeze and not like exploding diarrhea, which exactly what you will look like if you ever lose it on me. Enjoy! :D

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Well What Do You Do?


Imagine.

Imagine a fine evening, at a high and spacious veranda of a villa where there is an open beach in front of you, divided by a stretch of beautifully-lit and posh swimming pool and long padded walks at its sides heading towards the beach. The veranda you are in is made from high-grade timber, and the smell of fresh amber and varnish hits your nose like vanilla does - full of masculinity and strength, making you feel rather in control. The weather looks perfect as you stand by the handrail, looking towards the horizon at the end of the ocean, where the sun is already sinking into, creating a sensually-affecting sunset sky covered in velvet, purple and gold. Coconut trees and the perfectly-trimmed bushes and shrubs growing in the garden surrounding the villa intensify the sensational handsomeness of the landscape. The intensely beautiful evening is as well amplified with the slow-blowing salty breeze from the sea, caressing your face just like silk does, and you close your eyes and inhale slowly to feel just how wonderful the evening is as your hands grip on the wooden handrail in such an expressive gesture. Romantic jazz plays through an entertainment system at the corner of the veranda.

As you turn around, you see there are two beautifully-crafted and carved mahogany chair with elaborated armrests facing each other at the center of the shiny wooden floor, where in between of both there is a heavy four-corners dinner table for two, covered in cream-colored linen and silk with maroon skirting towards the lower part of it. The open ceiling of the veranda allows you to see the large wooden beams that support the roof, and in between those beams are lights that shower the room with dim yellow radiance giving strong senses of romanticism and love as the rich glow goes through the thin, wide maroon fabrics that are hanging from the center of the roof and down to each of the veranda's corner. On the table there are a large plate of grilled whole chicken, a bowl of pasta alla carbonara and mixed citrus and melon cuts in another bowl, half-dipped in ice. The tall wine glasses were filled with chilled clear apple cider; luxurious liquid of apple extracts mixed with cinnamon, nutmeg, orange-peel and cloves, as well as other spices, with the remaining still contained in a lucrative bottle at the side of the table. Right in front of each chair is a plate of which there still is remaining food on the each of it, half untouched, and in between them a freshly-picked blood red rose, standing lifelessly in a tall, clear vase.

And on the chair to your left, as you lean against one of the large wooden pillar and you knock one finger on it, a lady in a luxurious and elegant evening gown made from dashing red silk with elaborate extension to the ground, covering a large portion of the floor. She is a goddess in your liking; a tall lady with well-defined curves and fair glowing skin, her long, dark cocoa hair is finely-tied into a bun, showing her long, sensual neck apart from the gold-and-pearl choker she is wearing. Her lips are covered in red while her high cheek bones radiate from the glow. She sits with one of her legs crossing on the other, her hands resting on it and her eyes looking at the floor, her head remains unmoved. You gently undo your wrist buttons detaching them from the holding cufflinks and then untighten your silk necktie, throwing them on the floor. You put a hand on your temple and comb your long hair with your fingers to the back. 

And then it begins.

You march towards the table and you pick your glass up and drink from it. And then you hold the glass in your hand and admire the setting sun once again before your head turns and you look at the lady in front of you, sitting very still and very quiet in her chair with that sad look in the face. In a sudden you throw the glass at one of the wall, piercing sound hits your ears. You pick the plates up and throw them on the floor and they break into a thousand pieces. You lift up the chair and throw it to the corner and it bangs as it hits the audio speaker and the player, crushing them all. You pick up the end of the table and lift it sideway, throwing every other things that were on it as the table turns. And then you bend over and pick the apple cider bottle and knock its end on the edge of the table, breaking the bottom leaving sharp edges around it. You are breathing heavily and you feel heavy traces of disappointments, resentments, hatred, disgusts and for all that matters, anger. Your face reddens so much that it resembles a smoldering amber and charcoal at some point. 

You grip the bottle head you are holding so forcefully that the it breaks in your hand, piercing shrapnels of glasses into your palm hitting the bones. But you do not shriek nor make any other noticeable sound, for what you feel inside is more painful than what you feel from your bleeding hand. You feel cheated. You feel crossed-with. You feel played, that you have been made into a fool. A fool who trusts endlessly, wholeheartedly, unconditionally. Your eyes shed tears from these mixed feelings in your heart. Before your eyes there plays a visual of those great moments both of you share together, adding more insult to the injury. Now that your trusts were breached without you seeing it coming, you can never feel anymore betrayed.

The jeweleries. The house and the cars. The endless cash supplies. And this is how she paid you with. Well what do you do? 

Your lady was going out with men behind your back, well what do you do? 

Your lady was drinking and smoking and dancing for men behind your back, well what do you do? 

Your lady becomes a sexual innuendo and the lollipop for other men, well what do you do?

Your lady was having good times with your cash while you were working hard for it each god damn day, well what do you do?

Do you hit her with your bleeding hand?

Do you kick her in the eyes like you did to those chaps while defending her from them sometime ago?

Do you deliver a punch straight on her throat like you did to that boy who called her everyday before?

Do you step on her stomach like you did to that mailman who sneaked on her the other day?

Do you slam her face on and through the table like you did to the guy who tried to rob her months back?

Do you break her spine like you did to the man who constantly sent her texts at night a year back?

Or do you do nothing at all and just stand there in disappointment? Your bruised, no, your stabbed-for-multiple-times ego and your broken heart bleed by the minute as you look at her in total disbelief. Could it be the end of it? Could this be the finale for the dreams you both build together? The whole thing? Well do you want it to be? You partially do, but the battle is no ongoing in between this and the rest of you. Her face looks up at you begging for mercy with none of a word said, tears endlessly running down her cheeks smearing her makeup. Her hands shiver in fear from what was unleashed from you. The blood from your hand falls onto her dress, blending in with its color. But you just look at her from those cold, cold eyes that get colder as your thoughts linger. You don't move. You don't know what to do. You still don't know what to do.




Well what do you do? What do you do?


3 comments:

Ummi said...

I just love the way you write. You drew me in into the story, the descriptions so vivid I could almost taste the salty breeze.

But then again, this is a post on a broken-heart, on decision(s) to be made - to walk away or to stay.

From my past experience with relationships, I could not say that I'm one to give advice regarding what to do and what not.

Because I prefer to walk away and forget everything, even that person who I used to adore so much.

Mighty Jacksparrow said...

That's the hardest part right there: walking away with fondest of memories still linger in thy heart.

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