The Cycle to it All

There once belonged to a man two outlets of extraction. And before he was able to die, he did not take use of either. And then, when he did die, he realized his wrongdoing. So, he went back and lived all over again, as to remedy the misfortune. Yet, as always is, he lost track of himself and nothing changed. And so the cycle continued. The cycle being life and death, and the man being every man.

Ford Harrison lived down the street from a very nice family. The father, of the family down the street, would leave and arrive home at the same times everyday. His suit was always pressed and clean and his smile was always wide enough to be happy for several people. The mother, of the family down the street, always wore beautiful, flowery dresses and always appeared angelic. She too could be seen sporting an immense smile at all times, and her love radiated from her at a constant rate. Her dinners were always exquisitely orchestrated and always beyond compare. The son, of the family down the street, was preppy and popular with the boys his age. Unlike most, whenever a report card was issued he would promptly bring it home to his parents. Again, unlike most, his parents would always have a present waiting for him on that day. For, they knew, undoubtedly, that he would always do magnificently well. The boy was athletic and charming. The family down the street was very nice indeed.

Ford Harrison spent much of his time pondering the family down the street. He did not think about the people or their lives, but about their answer. He would wonder about their secret. There had to have been a reason for it all. Everyone had his or her own secret. Ford Harrison, for example, enjoyed watching the family down the street. The family down the street, for example, knew how to be happy. Ford Harrison was determined to discover exactly how that was.

Ford Harrison had not seen or heard from his drunken, slut of a wife in several days. He didn’t care; she meant nothing to him. His son had also been missing, but this was a far more common occurrence. So, Ford Harrison was drinking. He saw little point in doing anything else. He drank and drank, as if drinking would solve it all. And in many ways it did, at least, in the eyes of Ford Harrison. Soon, after Ford had drank more than someone should, his front door, which he sat facing, opened.

Ford was not entirely aware of himself or what he was doing. He later recalled a scream and a bang, or a bump of some kind. He woke up several hours later to see glass everywhere and his wife face down on the floor. At first, he merely assumed she had passed out, just as he had. Then he noticed the blood. Ford pulled himself upright and went into the kitchen, now in a kind of trance. As he walked by the fridge he noticed a note.

“I’m done with this fuckin’ family. I can’t take much more of this. See yah. Brad.”

Ford grabbed the miniscule piece of paper and forced it close to his eyes. He kept shaking it as if it were trying to get away. When he finally interpreted its message, he threw it to the floor. Then, moments later, he threw himself upon the thing, grabbed it, and tore it to shreds. He screamed then. The scream was a chillingly real emotion. The scream was Ford Harrison mourning his life. The scream was Ford Harrison mourning what he did not accomplish. The scream was Ford Harrison mourning what he could have. The scream was Ford Harrison.

The police took Ford Harrison away several days later. They could not and never did locate Ford Harrison’s son, and his wife had been dead for several days. Ford Harrison did not have a soul that cared about him. As the police car pulled away, he caught a glimpse of the family down the street. They weren’t smiling. The father wasn’t on his way to work. The mother wasn’t radiating love. The son wasn’t being athletic or charming. They were staring in awe at him, at the man that had lived a few houses away. They were staring at the murderer. It was then that Ford realized their secret.

And so the cycle continues, and so man lives his life. Yet this is either his punishment or his reward. This is how he himself decides. For it is this life and no other, that man must live and live and live. And for the better or the worse of it all, he is confined. A more daunting task there has and will never be. And, as was said in the beginning, so the cycle continues.

A guy