Conrad Julius Ecklie (conrad_ecklie) wrote,
Conrad Julius Ecklie
conrad_ecklie

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Theatrical Muse: Week 149: Question 149

Name: Conrad Ecklie

Fandom:
CSI: Crime Scene Investigation

Word Count: 778


What do your ancestors mean to you?


You might say a vile, grim grin spread across my face when I read this one. I mean, seriously, are we not past the stage at which we feel the need to question my own being about this matter? Do you still feel the need to press and pry into my life, even though, I will not, have not, and, will, never, ever, give you the answer? My family, is my own business, my own private business, and what knowledge I have about them, I keep close and dear to my heart, which means it is not for sharing with others, especially, the likes of you. I am a private man, I keep my own private things, my own private facts and scraps of life, to, my, fucking, self. Do you not get the concept of privacy? Because, after your repeated violations of what I have clearly laid down to be my rules, about what I will and will not discuss, I would have thought you might, just, even, barely, begin to grasp the idea. The very, important, idea, that I do not want to chat, or talk, or say anything, about the matters that I consider to me private, in relation to my being, and those of the people who I am quite close to. They may not surround me, hell, they barely even touch my side, but they are important to me, in some way, and, as such, I will protect them to the very, very, end.

When I was eight, my parents were brutally murdered, slain, as we prepared our Christmas dinner. I was then raised by my aunt, who moved into our house after it was cleared. Things were scrubbed, things were fixed, things were cleaned, and, we continued on with our respective lives. I grew up, eating at a table that I could still see a slight stain on, although it was continually covered up with a number of lace doilies. People came, people went, their sympathies commonly present. After my parents, it was just me and my aunt, fighting against the world that was trying, always trying, to squish us down.

I became an adult, I went to university, I learnt and got my degrees. I began work, I started to move up the ranks, and I met this woman, this beautiful, beautiful woman, who wanted to love me. And I loved her back. And, it was glorious. Soon enough though, she was killed, murdered, slain as she lived inside our house, and, just like the death of my parents, I regret the occurrence every day of my life, and will do so, for as long as I may live onwards with my tormented existence.

I want my wife back! I want my parents back! I want to have grown up happy, and content, because no one, not even me, deserves this! No one deserves to live a life as I have, and come out physically unscathed! I should be without arms, without legs, I should lack feeling not because I make myself not have it, but because I was injured and my ability to think coherently was taken away from me. I should be crippled beyond all reason, because, inside, inside, I shake, I feel feverish, I am crippled emotionally beyond all reason. Do you know what it is like to not have something physically wrong with you, but, still, to sit there, and watch your hands, still as ice, yet still feel that they are shaking. I shake on the inside, you bastard! I shake, continuously, because my soul, my feelings, my emotional thoughts, my emotional mind, they all shake because I’m not normal, I can’t let them be free and natural. Because I’m not natural! I am some cruelly crafted, wickedly made, excuse for a human being! Oh, I am smart, I am fast, I am strung, but I am also dark, I am, not stuck, but, thrown around, instead. I have a bruised and battered soul, and it is made what is normal, a horrible creation. My dark feelings, my dampened thoughts, all normal, because, for me, being an emotionless, fleshy hollow shell, is, normal.

And sometimes, just, sometimes, I wish I wasn’t me. I wish, I was free instead, free to experience, to love, to be happy, to not pretend that I’m something, I’m not, anymore. Sometimes, just, sometimes, I wish I wasn’t me anymore. However, I get over that soon enough, and I continue, I keep on going, have kept on going, and will keep on going, until I die. It is what I have to do, and that, that is all there is to it.
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