A walk through the inferno of green

For me, there was never really a man on the moon. The moon was too far, too distant. I could reach my hand up and stretch high oh so high, but it seemed long and so long. There was always a man though. Mostly above me and sometimes below. He followed all my footsteps, just adrift so he could never really influence my chosen path. His screams are quieter now. The constant beratings were loud, he seemed frustrated with my happenings and all that I did. That annoyed me, what gave him the right? I had not seen anything he had done, never been inspired by a work of his, yet his smug aura suggested accomplishment in all fields, even the frustratingly tangible one of my own. Often I face the void, eyes staring into an oblivion, and think about the one time I got close to him. I saw him, really up close. Studied his looks and watched his mannerisms. I talked to him, and it was when I went home, returned to myself, I realised this was the most important day of my life.

The day began at the end. Laying in my bed, head feeling fuzzy, finally. After days of work I was too tired to generate persuasive concern. I imagined I was walking, and so I guess I really was. Strolling through these numbed thoughts, detached from the sharp prongs of the physical. I was walking and it was green. A green most don’t know. A green caused by sacred land, untouched from us. It was real. It invited me inwards and upwards. I was on a slope. It is hot and sweat falls from my skin but that's ok. 

The slope is gentle, a satisfying effort to reach the top. It was unlike my life at the time, seemingly endless summits of unknowable heights and disproportionate signage, this one made sense. It's enough of an incline to give me a challenge, I know it will feel good to reach the top but most importantly I know I can reach the top. The trees here are tightly packed with light breaking through flutters of foliage and illuminating details normally blocked by the troubling moorings of life. Yet here I am free and I can really appreciate it all. 

As I walk up and up, this becomes everything. Whatever I was doing or was, you see, that was nothing now. Ever since my even greater youth, everything was such a calamity. Sure, my circumstances were not that special, most would not even look twice at me, but inside? That was an inferno of fear. The inferno consumed and took all from me, it really stifled it all. Bright reds, hot to touch, hot to feel, this sweat was greasy. Outside my image would suffice,but I was really a congealed mess within. Imagine a blacksmith working with a hunk of scrap metal, but during his work he discovers the

death of his wife and children at the hands of his supposed best friend. What that blacksmith does, tortured by the tragedy of death, sculpts the most abhorrent, disgusting deformity. And that deformity of a hunk of metal, scrapped together by the fires of rage and fury was me. 

Not now though, I was perfectly exhausted, the blacksmith had killed himself and the workshop air was easy. The gentle pull of eternity shrouded the house of rage into quiet cobwebs and a home of the desperate. Life adjusted to the space and his futile emotions withered in a dark corner. Slowly the corner reduced and reduced, until only the most perceptive of us would determine it gentle.This gentleness consumed me, I could focus on the green and focus I did. Climbing up this slope my mind could zero in on my surroundings. 

It was a small close, an emptying of trees surrounding me. A gentle space of morbid futility. There are chairs and a lady. Orange eyes and staring kindly beautifully protruding from an angelic field of freckles. Her hair is neatly cut just above the eyebrows, a warm face, it wants to know you and wants to see more. 

Sit? She asks. 

I’m not too sure. I reply 

It looks nice, she has a jug of water which has the perfect condensation. Beside her is a rug, laid out perfectly with a picturesque picnic basket. Her cups are cute, and her

sandwiches petite. A tea party. She opens a basket and pulls out a sponge cake with bright red jam. Dusted with icing sugar and I realise I am hungry. My state of pure exploration has been invaded and I feel the lasso of desire is back. My neck is chafed, a red blistering, it slowly oozes a bright yellow pus. She is beautiful, way too beautiful for this, she holds an elegant pose which guides me to sit beside her as everyone who comes across her really should. The summit's impact has declared itself and my legs are tired. My throat is dry and she has water. She wears red lipstick that softly accentuates lips of comfort. A slender finger invites me and my stomach lurches. I approach the woman, dressed in a cream yellow. Sleeves of white visible underneath. A real buttercup. Would she survive my inferno? I don’t want to destroy her. Her sandcastles are perfect, architecture of the sublime. Do I want to be the reckless child? Am I the one with disastrous steps who cannot withhold destruction? 

One sandwich please. I ask. I hope you are ok. 

What are you willing to pay? 

I thought you were trying to give. 

You have come to the wrong place to live. 

Did I ask to come here at all? 

You have walked so far, take a seat and I’ll explain. 

Will that make me fall? 

And then she melts. Her face slowly slides off her raised cheekbones. She was beautiful, way too beautiful for here. Her black hair begins to fly off, rushed away into

the forest, way too fast to follow. Her hair was so nice. Now she has a bald head and it begins to steam, it reeks of sulphur. A repugnant odour that desecrates her sweet legacy. Her pretty ears have fallen and bleed but they did not even hear what I had to say. I plead for them to stop, I try to explain why I’m here. I want to talk to them, I want to be listened to too. They won’t come back and the blood won't stop pooling. Around my feet and up to my ankles. I search for her ears. When I find one and pick it up it hurts, it weighs 1000 pounds. I clatter to the ground and embrace her warm blood. It clings to my soul and finds a home between my toes. Raising my head I see her rotten skull. The freckles have remained, the orange eyes still invite me. But I don’t think I want to play anymore, clearly I don’t want to be heard. Maybe I will shout from the top. 

So then I see him. I finally see the man. High, high above, yet at a discernable distance is me. I'm smiling, it's comfortable and everyone can tell I'm happy. I sit nicely in my body, better than how I could ever do. I exude good tidings and such an easy mind. A beacon of assured confidence that safely avoids the realm of narcissism. People like this person, there is no self obsession. Yet one could allow it, for me he looks just that. I'm older, there is a comfortable stubble on my face, which I now see because he has noticed me and looks in my direction. A kind smile spreads across his face. Is he my father, husband or best friend? He raises an inviting arm which holds a perfectly condensed beer. I reckon he has more to share. His face is easy, slightly wrinkled but not deformed. He has the appeal of a loved book and as the sun hits his pages his prose is beautiful. Complex but easily read, his sentences flow and do not rush. Yet he reads just like me.

Hi. 

Hello. You want to be me? 

I don’t think so. 

But you came to me, you climbed all this way. For god sakes you killed that woman just to see me. 

I didn’t choose to do this. 

Stop lying. He shouts. He's furious. Spit is flying out of his mouth in all directions. I have never seen myself like that. He’s so red. An inferno of his cheeks propel slander towards me. 

You have to start being honest with yourself! You make yourself come here, climb all this way, decline her invitation and continue to lie to yourself! You cannot plead ignorance, you cannot question your motives! I have never seen something more deliberate. 

I wanted to talk to someone. I think my words need to be heard 

OH! But how we have heard them all before. To think, to really think that there is a shred of differing innocence in your body. That there is a single thing that separates you from the masses clambering and shouting at me. Surely you cannot claim to be different, you have lived right? You have opened your eyes, and listened for just one second. Hear the symphony of sorrow, gaze upon the lake of loss… you are walking though the rainforest of reformation yet you remain a failure of fear. You don’t deserve to be here, your presence has made me feel a way I haven’t in years. Why have you done this to me?

I thought it would be different. I just wanted to go for a walk. 

Go home. I hate you. 

I 

I hate you. I despise your useless futility. 

Goodbye. 

Oh how I hope you die. 

So I walked back, through the pool of the pretty lady and by the freshness of the green. Down and up and through it all I think I reached my home. I turned around and smiled, looking into the eye of my soul. I thought to myself ok, 

I know it's going to be ok.

Written by Chris Calthorpe

I am a first year English and French student at the university of Sydney. At 21 years old  my two greatest loves in life are literature and rugby league and I am in a constant battle of deciding which one to spend my life invested in . My favourite book ever is Catch 22 and I want to try to write more, most of the time I write poetry and sometimes a short story.