Knowing the Narcissist : The Asylum of the Grotesque : Amelia

 

 

Winter had arrived. The world was silent beyond the walls of my property. Outside the air was bitterly cold, the ground hard and covered in snow. Within my domain it was warm, gently lit and conducive to conversation. Earlier that day Amelia and I had been for a walk.

 

The biting nip of winter cut through the air as we stepped out into the icy landscape. The world around us seemed still, frozen in time, and the coldness that engulfed every breath I took only intensified the sense of isolation.

 

The path ahead, once familiar and inviting, was now blanketed with a crisp layer of snow. Each gentle step resonated with a soft crunch, a constant reminder of the snow’s unyielding hold on the ground. The once vibrant colors of autumn had long since been replaced by a monochromatic palette of whites and grays.

 

As we walked further, I noticed that the trees stood tall and skeletal, their branches reaching out like jagged fingers clawing at the sky. Ice glistened upon their limbs, refracting the weak sunlight and turning them into glittering apparitions. The whole scene was draped in an ethereal beauty, folding nature into a desolate yet captivating spectacle.

 

The stillness of the air was interrupted only by the occasional gust of wind. It carried with it a chill that penetrated deep into my bones, reminding me of the unforgiving nature of winter. We encountered nobody else on our walk.

 

 

As we continued, , the frozen landscape seemed to swallow everything in its path. Streams that once flowed freely were now encapsulated by ice, their gurgling melodies silenced by the grip of winter’s frost. The world had been rendered motionless, almost eerie in its stillness, each element caught in suspended animation.

 

Time itself appeared to move slowly, as if the icy breath of winter had slowed its relentless march. Shadows stretched longer, painting a somber portrait against the pristine snow, highlighting the starkness of the season.

 

As we rounded a corner through the forest, Amelia let out a short cry of fright. Ahead of us was the corpse of a stag, a branch thrust through its throat. It had clearly charged headlong into this wooden lance which had pierced it and killed it. Amelia turned into me burying her head in my chest as I looked on at the scene. It had clearly happened some time ago as the stag was frozen, the drained blood partially hidden by fresh snowfall. I sought to move forward to look more closely, but Amelia pulled on me, face still hidden, trying to stop me.

“Can we go, please?” she asked. I consented and declared my agreement as I steered her away from the scene of death.

 

Hours later, ensconced in the warmth of my property, Amelia looked pensive. I rationalized the dead stag was playing on her mind.

“ You were not bothered by that stag, were you?” she asked me.

“ No, I wasn´t,” I confirmed.

“Why? Don´t dead things bother you? I hate it, I absolutely hate it. I cannot stand to see dead animals and watching someone on their death bed, like my uncle (her favourite uncle had died a few months ago) it´s just so horrible, so unnecessary,” she explained with a shudder.

“What goes through your mind when you see someone dying, I assume you´ve had that happen as some point?” she asked.

“You really want to know?” I queried.

She nodded her assent.

I drew in a breath and set down my glass as I turned towards her on the sofa we both shared.

 

“ Picture the scene, a person, at death´s door besides me. As I stand by the bedside of the dying individual, I observe the frailty of life slowly succumbing to the inevitability of death. The faded light of existence flickers within their weary eyes, as if a candle’s flame teetering on the edge of extinction

 

The room is permeated with a hushed stillness – a silence that seems to envelop the very essence of life slipping away. The corners of the room have become a testament to human vulnerability, adorned with the accouterments of medicine and a minutia of life preserved by artificial means. The subdued beeping of monitors intrudes, punctuating the foreboding silence that lingers.

 

I observe the patient’s loved ones, their visages lined with a palpable anguish. Their tears fall, tracing paths of sadness upon their worn cheeks. They hold hands, seeking solace within the fragile web of human connection. Gingerly, they search their souls for words of solace and bidding farewell. Yet, it is here that emotions become incongruous with my detached state – for I watch, but I do not feel.

 

As the final moments approach, I sigh with the acknowledgement that death is an impartial visitor to the realm of the living – it honors no boundaries of age or circumstance. It cares not for the memories created, the dreams unfulfilled, or the potential yet untapped. It is but a cessation of being, an end to the complex symphony of human existence.

 

With the gentle rise and fall of each breath, I observe the finality that pervades the room. It is as if time itself moves at a different pace in this circumstance, each passing moment pregnant with profound significance. And yet, paradoxically, it is also as if time stands still – suspended between the realms of life and death, teetering precariously on the threshold.

 

Occasionally, fleeting flickers of regret emanate from the dying soul’s eyes, as if in a desperate quest to reconcile with a lifetime’s transgressions. There are no second chances in death, no possibilities for redemption or change. The extinguishing flame neither absolves nor condemns, it simply vanishes into the ethereal abyss.

 

The fading pulse grows fainter – the steady staccato of a drumbeat retreating into the distant recesses of silence. The rhythm of life becomes a remnant of a symphony whose final movement looms. The inevitable grip of death starts its suffocating embrace, consuming the vitality of one who once held promise and purpose.

 

I am reminded of the fragile existence many lead. Most are but passengers on this journey through time, vulnerable to the whims of fate and circumstance. The cycles of life and death are forever entwined, an intricate dance where departure eventually becomes the reality for all.

 

 

For in this observation, devoid of overwhelming emotions, I perceive the fragility of life more acutely, the ephemeral nature of it all-consuming my senses. Every breath becomes a fragile melody, every heartbeat a delicate rhythm. It ignites a certain appreciation for the brevity of existence, an acceptance of the transient nature of being.

 

In the final moments, I am unburdened by sorrow or grief, I witness the culmination of a life’s journey – from the first gasps of infancy to the waning frailty of old age. And in this detached stance, I simply watch as the curtain falls on this mortal tale.”

 

As I finish I am returned to the room before me by the low and gentle sobbing of Amelia, her pretty face stained by the tears that fall for a person she never knew and never could know, such a fascinating connection she had created from the words I have spoken.ue

5 thoughts on “Knowing the Narcissist : The Asylum of the Grotesque : Amelia

  1. Agave says:

    My feelings about contemporary humans exactly. Well said.

  2. Agave says:

    I thoroughly enjoy these series: Asylum of The Grotesque, hailing the return of the great prose by HG, the intricate gymnastics of the English language that convey the skilled manipulations of his victims.

    Andrea is my favorite, so far.

  3. Witch says:

    Ooooo I like this one

  4. Allison says:

    This is such a beautiful series. I wish I didn’t have to die so that I could read it always.

  5. Joa says:

    Very subtle and delicate description.
    Sad, real and… uplifting.

    Thank you.

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