Entrusted
Chapter 6- Rubbish
Cassandra and John spent the night in that pit of madness, of forbidden goods, of the past remnants of a once prosperous culture. Digging thru piles of books, of music, films, artwork, whatever there was that once evoked any sort of feeling. Cassandra held each piece of artifact like it was fine bone china. She used a light grasp and a feather-like touch to turn pages of books, read small passages aloud, and read more to herself. John, like a small child, hung on to every word, wanting more, what happened next. Of course, he was skeptical as to how she knew everything that she did know, but it didn't matter to him at that moment. All he cared about was this integral time and space with Cassandra. She was like a timekeeper, going back and forth thru the ages to give brief histories and biographies, the main messages of movies and of artwork. Her face, clenched in both concentration and of contempt, sadness, and joyous ecstasy, nearly brought John to tears at times of integral conflict in the novel Les Miserables, but when she stopped reading and hand the novel to John, he was left unaware. He didn't know how to comprehend these things. It was all too new to him. He was like an infant in the waking world. He read anyway: his hunger ate at him until he had no choice.
Cassandra walked to an isolated corner in the room. She kneeled to the floor. They were albums, hundreds of them, piled on the floor is neat stacks. She read every one: Mozart, Billie Holiday, Metallica, The Temptations, Duran Duran, Incubus, and many others that seemed unfamiliar, strange, and foreign to her. But one, Beethoven, struck a cord to her. She took it in her hand, and placed it in the record player. John, who was in another section of the room, reading aloud softly, was content in his own aura. Cassandra put the needle to the vinyl, and small notes, quiet, and obscure began to flow thru the room.
"Shh.", Cassandra hushed John.
He looked up, not hearing the music.
"What is...", he was cut off, the music was now clearly audible. He sat with a dazed look in his eyes, his clean face washed of any emotion. He listened silently, his head cocked to one side, taking in every bar of notes, every chord, every possible sound that was coming from the machine. He closed his eyes, sat back into his chair, and began to cry silently to himself. This beauty, this unknown realm of pleasure and pain, cobwebbed and covered in the dust of Preston's mind, came into focus and consumed every inch of him. Overcome with this new way of life, his put his heads in his hands, and sobbed silently to himself, both happy, and angered that the world, and him, would help to destroy this part of life, how we could do away with this outlet of both guilt and redemption, hatred and love, of chivalry and cowardice.
Cassandra walked over to John, and held his head in her hands. His hazel eyes were wet with tears, his face the same. He fell into her arms, and they both listened to the concerto in silence. They eventually fell asleep in that room, in the middle of nowhere, alone, but with all the love in the world they would ever obtain.
Cassandra and John spent the night in that pit of madness, of forbidden goods, of the past remnants of a once prosperous culture. Digging thru piles of books, of music, films, artwork, whatever there was that once evoked any sort of feeling. Cassandra held each piece of artifact like it was fine bone china. She used a light grasp and a feather-like touch to turn pages of books, read small passages aloud, and read more to herself. John, like a small child, hung on to every word, wanting more, what happened next. Of course, he was skeptical as to how she knew everything that she did know, but it didn't matter to him at that moment. All he cared about was this integral time and space with Cassandra. She was like a timekeeper, going back and forth thru the ages to give brief histories and biographies, the main messages of movies and of artwork. Her face, clenched in both concentration and of contempt, sadness, and joyous ecstasy, nearly brought John to tears at times of integral conflict in the novel Les Miserables, but when she stopped reading and hand the novel to John, he was left unaware. He didn't know how to comprehend these things. It was all too new to him. He was like an infant in the waking world. He read anyway: his hunger ate at him until he had no choice.
Cassandra walked to an isolated corner in the room. She kneeled to the floor. They were albums, hundreds of them, piled on the floor is neat stacks. She read every one: Mozart, Billie Holiday, Metallica, The Temptations, Duran Duran, Incubus, and many others that seemed unfamiliar, strange, and foreign to her. But one, Beethoven, struck a cord to her. She took it in her hand, and placed it in the record player. John, who was in another section of the room, reading aloud softly, was content in his own aura. Cassandra put the needle to the vinyl, and small notes, quiet, and obscure began to flow thru the room.
"Shh.", Cassandra hushed John.
He looked up, not hearing the music.
"What is...", he was cut off, the music was now clearly audible. He sat with a dazed look in his eyes, his clean face washed of any emotion. He listened silently, his head cocked to one side, taking in every bar of notes, every chord, every possible sound that was coming from the machine. He closed his eyes, sat back into his chair, and began to cry silently to himself. This beauty, this unknown realm of pleasure and pain, cobwebbed and covered in the dust of Preston's mind, came into focus and consumed every inch of him. Overcome with this new way of life, his put his heads in his hands, and sobbed silently to himself, both happy, and angered that the world, and him, would help to destroy this part of life, how we could do away with this outlet of both guilt and redemption, hatred and love, of chivalry and cowardice.
Cassandra walked over to John, and held his head in her hands. His hazel eyes were wet with tears, his face the same. He fell into her arms, and they both listened to the concerto in silence. They eventually fell asleep in that room, in the middle of nowhere, alone, but with all the love in the world they would ever obtain.