Prologue - The Calling Read Count : 34
Category : Stories
Sub Category : Thriller
Why am I here?Pondering the simple but demanding enquiry, the questioned adolescent thought back momentarily to the phenomena that had ultimately led him where he was today.A trialing chain of inexorable events had taken a composed, vigorous teenage boy and broke him into a sorry and disoriented spirit. The same course of happenings had forced him out of the familiar suburban comfort and into the deep rural of a hillside village, now leaving him on the deserted parts of the Cape hills - those only visited by the desperate.And so there he was, kneeling in arch form on concrete floor, droplets of sweat running down his unblemished face. He had lively dark brown eyes and a bronze skin tone, had a round shaped head that was mostly veiled by his loose neck length dreadlocks.There he was in a cluttered and shadowy, rounded room that allowed just a shaft of daylight beam through a tear in the stale curtain. In a stranger's hut, surrounded by the strangest objects used for conceivably strange things, there he was - face to face with his last and probably only chance of salvation.'Because I'm not well,' finally, the boy replied, with one of his initial thoughts being - because I'm fucked. 'and, uh, I'm not sure what to do or-' he took a deep breath. 'or where else to go.' he sighed the rest of the words.The young man was exhausted. Both physically and mentally. Sleep was all that he felt like doing as it was precisely all that he did in the past week. Just sleeping. And all this talking wasn't helping his situation. Talk tired him. But not because of his current state, talking had always been something that he weirdly found wearing and worrisome.The boy was a listener, not a talker. Spoke only when spoken to. He would tend to avoid one on one conversations and join groups, because he had understood that in social gatherings is where almost everyone has something to say. That meant he would only have to nod or shake his head in disapproval without having to say much; a single word most times.As for the reason behind this weird phobia, if it can be called one, neither him nor his family knew the wherefores of it. No one could say something like, 'His late uncle was also like this.' or 'He must have took from his mother.' All the boy knew was that when it came to verbally expressing himself he wasn't as a natural as most of his peers appeared to be.The trouble didn't lie in his speech, nor did it have anything to do with being shy. Rather, the stress of trying not to miscommunicate something in the middle of a conversation or a sensitive topic. Whenever there was a heated misunderstanding he would oddly feel nervous, even when it didn't involve him, he would somehow find himself concerned.The boy had seen the ridiculousness of it all but, nevertheless, couldn't dismiss it.Sweaty and sleepy, the young man finally looked up and immediately noticed that he had to say more. Not what he had expected. He didn't think he'd have to talk much when he got to the stranger's rondavel. He had thought that he would mostly have to listen carefully and get the answers he had been looking for. He was wrong.So much for divine intuition.'There's something, uhm, wrong with me.' he began to explain. He had a rich melodious voice that was soothing to listen to. Most people liked hearing him talk even though it wouldn't be brief.'The doctors couldn't find out what was making sick. The physiotherapist failed. The psychiatrist, the priest...' his throat started feeling compressed in a very uncomfortable manner. 'None of them could find the cause or at least...' his voice started trembling. 'cure me.'He looked to see if he could stop but the response wasn't enough.'And I'm tired. I feel like quiting. I feel...' he started making hand gestures in the air. 'like just giving up and let whatever happens happens. Even if it I'll lose everything.' His eyes got moisty. He didn't want to say more. He could feel the river bank of tears just beneath his eyes.When the stranger finally asked him what was wrong, his heart ached so badly it broke the whole resistance to cry. And out the tears came, streaming down his innocent face. The boy's intention had been to choose his words carefully as to not reveal much but neither conceal much as well. Non of that mattered anymore. The boy's burden was already too much to bear. All he could do was just be aware of his emotional state.'I don't know what's wrong with me. Physically, spiritually,' he glanced down in noticing he had never felt this angry before. 'mentally!' he shook his head in disbelief. He felt outraged, cheated by life. He understood that life was unfair but this time it had gone too far. He deserved none of this. Karma had gotten the wrong guy.Having never complained about life this was a cry of sorrow and protest. Lips trembling, nose running, body shaking, he didn't have the energy to do this but the odds didn't matter now. For the past few weeks the universe seemed to be rebeling against it's laws of physics. Reality had gotten obscured in his life. Or was it the illusion of it?'I want to know why I'm seeing things,' he demanded. 'I want to know whether or not I'm cursed, whether or not I'm crazy. Why it always feels like I'm reliving everything bad that happens to me.''Why can't I stop collapsing? Why am I always feeling nauseous? Why can't I just have a single night where I don't go to sleep having had to endure a headache?' he began to slow down from weariness. 'How am I able to predict the future?' he looked up again. 'and how is it that I'm always right?'