A Quarter Life

‘Hickory Dickory Doc, The mouse ran up the clock' He said to himself, amidst the rocks. He tried to look behind, but couldn't find anyone to gossip. He wasn't alone, he was just deserted. His feet became numb for a long time. And wasn't that obvious? The rock above his feet maybe weighed more than two hundred pound. He knew, maybe this was the last line of his lifeline. He asks to himself, 'Why? After so many years running, surviving in the woods, looking for the secrets held up by them, finding them, and now, now it’s the dead end? Why? Why couldn’t you live the simple life you desired?' No answer came within him, he knew it would never come. He could feel immense pain in his lower half, and all he could do was to curse himself to death. He could see the cave opening. The cave, they call it the 'Tumba', a Spanish word, referring to graves. He laughed, hysterically. On what? Maybe on his fate, or maybe on the wise guy who named the cave. He surely landed in the grave, and the tombstone was crushing his feet. He heard some footsteps, some hurried footsteps. Maybe some lost soldiers, some frightened soldiers, wandering in the woods, surviving. He waited, waited till the expected hastiness on the cave opening. He saw two soldiers, running their sweats off in the cave. He could see the fear within them, the droplets of hope, the will to live a second more, the tears to thrive for their loved ones. He shouted, 'Aye aye, soldiers. Fear not! You live, you live to the fullest of your heart.' The soldiers was afraid at first, but somehow relieved seeing him. 'Captain, you're alive?' asked one soldier. 'Yes, more alive than I could ever be, yet more dead than I could ever endure.' He said laughingly. 'Captain, it's free. It’s free.' the other said fearfully. He laughed, laughed to the last of his polluted lung. 'What do you think of me, huh? I know it’s free. I was there when he broke the glass cage and broke free. Why do you think I am stuck in the cave? Why? Am I afraid? No, I am not, by the sword of the royal queen.' They were tensed. He could see the tension running down the spine. First one asked, 'Captain, are you all right?' He yelled, 'What do you think? Am I drunk? Yes, I am, drank all that bloods, all the bloods of the soldier.' He looked to the other guy, yelling, 'You ask why? Why did you call me Captain? So that I can see all of you die, ripped apart by that bastard, while stuck with these useless feet to be called a war hero? No sir, I refuse that. This troop, it’s a legacy, and you shall know, the legacy never falls. You hearing me? Legacy never fa-' the rock above his feet leaned forward. He could feel his abdomen crushing in lumps, yet he could hardly breath and talk. They could hear grumpy footsteps outside. The two soldiers looked at each other, afraid, helpless. He could see them. Was he afraid? Was he? He was. He was afraid, not for that creep, but for his failure, for his carelessness. Could he save everyone? Could he carry on the legacy? He didn’t know, he would never know. Tossing his hand in the air, he yelled, 'Soldiers, wish your captain the last salud.' They couldn’t resist themselves. They tried and tried, but tears couldn’t but come. He looked at the tears, and said laughingly, 'I never saw a salud of tears, does it taste salty?' They laughed, laughed with the sore eyes. He saw them laughing, maybe for the last time. He happily closed his eyes, hearing the ramble on the cave opening. He said for the last time, 'Salud, world, salud' When Mike woke up, it was dawn. Pretty much early for him, he realized. He got up, slowly, felt the headache. He said to himself, 'Isn’t it the part of daily routine?' He got out of the bed, carrying the headache. The bed remained alone, staring at him, alone like him. He knew the kitchen more than anything in this house. He walked into the kitchen like something there was waiting for him. He would always do that. He could smell the coffee beans from the closed cabinet. He felt every beans, every coffee beans, crushing into particles, he felt every time. Did he repent? He didn’t know. He poured a small amount of milk. The milk seemed too much weird to him. Why was it white? For its purity? Was it pure? Wad anything pure? He didn’t know. He couldn’t see any purity in the milk with his bare eyes. He was never the judge, in this world of sinister. He would rather like to be a spectator, with his worn out eyes, seeing the worn out lies. He never wanted to touch the sky. He just prayed to be the last one to be in touch with sky. He came to his room with his half-made coffee. He looked at the window, the rust was becoming old. He looked out, the city was still, alone, like him. He laughed. Who could imagine that anything could stop the busy times of Washington D.C. Even the homeless people here, used to be busy, finding shelter. Mike could see the Washington Monument far away, but deserted. He came back to bed. He took a sip of the coffee. Well, better than last time. He grinned. Looking at the blank TV screen, he asked himself, 'What did I see today? Where was the cave? Who were the soldiers? Why were they addressing me as captain? What was the 'it' thing? Why do I see it every f*****g night? Why?' He fell asleep, leaving his half-finished coffee aside. Perhaps his coffee was like him, deserted, left alone. The dawn had another plan maybe, it might stay, in another way, amidst the life. The coffee cup could think, how busy are we anyway?