Phantoms of Paradise

by Chris Herrin

This is my first story in a long time, and it will most likely have a distinctly different style than the one I used to have. I hope you all enjoy this, and I would appreciate all reviews, good or bad, that you could send my way, to help me to make my writing better. Appreciate it, hope you enjoy it!

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Chapter 1

Just Another Day

I am so tired.

I am so very, very exhausted.

Each day seems longer than the last.

Each waking breath I take, more painful than the last.

The emptiness I feel cannot be filled; instead it feeds upon each moment.

I once thought that this was a phase, that I would pass through it, and that I would be okay.

I know now how wrong I was, how impossibly naïve to think that my feelings for her would just go away.

To think, even for a moment, that the proximity of their love would not envelope my heart.

There was once a time, back before them, that I can remember happiness.

Now, however, that all seems like a passing dream.

Each night is darker, more barren.

I have nothing left in me.

I can't go on.

They don't even notice.

I am nothing to them, just a shadow.

A blurred image in a photograph, long forgotten.

How can I continue this monotonous life when all those I loved did not know me?

How is it that, after so many years, after so many battles, they could forget me and leave me?

Is it possible that this is where I was meant to end, and that my purpose in life, especially theirs, is gone?

My love, the only girl I ever gave my heart to, how could she spit it back at me, never to heal?

My friend, my brother, the one guy I put my entire trust in, and he could ignore me?

How could I think that I was anything more to them?

How could I think I was his brother?

How could she love me?

She couldn't.

Riku.

Kairi….

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I woke, startled at a sudden sound. It seemed so foreign to me to hear something out of the ordinary, something other than the waves crashing against the shore, hopelessly, endlessly…

I sat up, ready for the monotonous decoration of events that would fill up my day. Nothing would surprise me today, nothing ever did. I shook my head and felt my long hair whip into the sides of my face. It had been months since my last hair cut. It didn't seem necessary anymore. I put my feet on the floor and shuffled slowly, yet deliberately, over to my bathroom. The cool hardwood felt ordinary underneath my calloused feet. The familiar sight of my bathroom filled my vision. My toothpaste cap was off the tube, which was out of the ordinary. This bothered me. Nothing out of the ordinary happened to me. Nothing.

I quickly brushed my teeth, filling my mouth with the all too familiar taste of mint, and scrubbed quickly and efficiently at my teeth. I raised my eyes to the phantom in my mirror. The familiar gaunt eyes, those bloodshot blue eyes filled the mirror, staring back at me with unknown loathing. When had those eyes changed from the innocent ones that had inhabited their place so long ago?

My eyes darted to my chin, its scratchy surface of whiskers reminding me of the passing years. Eight years. Eight long, terrible years. I picked up my razor, looked at it with interest for a moment, and then put it back down. There was no point in shaving my whiskers.

I shuffled over to my shower, undressed, and got in. Once I heated the water up, I felt one of the only two pleasures I had left in my life. The warmth of the water flowed over me, heating my cold body, reminding me what it had once felt like to be alive. I ran my fingers through my hair, washing the oil and dirt from the night out of it, and for a few moments, felt nothing. Quickly, however, the anguish poured back over me like a waterfall, and I remembered quickly the life I was forever trapped in. I cleaned myself up, turned off the shower, and grabbed a towel. I dried out my shoulder length hair and tied the towel to my waist, stepping out of my shower and walking swiftly past the steam filled mirror. Back into my bedroom I glided, taking in the sight as I passed through it to my dresser. The ghosts of my past had all been swept aside; my bedroom had been purged of anything that reminded me.

I slipped on some jeans and pulled a tight white shirt over my head, then headed out onto my balcony. This had been my bedroom since I was nine years old, and what I had seen from this balcony then seemed a stranger to the sight I now saw. The waves that had once filled me with excitement now reminded me of myself, my monotonous battering against something unmovable, unchangeable. Each time, the waves were thrown back again and again, and yet they returned always, to crash once more against the rough sand.

I hated her in that moment, to have stolen something that I had once found so beautiful.

I shook my head, ridding myself of those thoughts. They never got me anywhere. I would not dive back into that pit of self-loathing. I refused to.

I quickly walked out of my room and down my stairs. My den came into view; I noticed that the blanket on the couch was not folded well. I would take care of that after breakfast. I stopped at the bottom of the stairs to pick up two white socks and my boots, and slowly tied them, swiftly going through my well practiced movements. Each day I would tie my shoes the same way, the same tightness, and it never failed to bother me how I could not seem to break the habit.

My shoes echoed off of the hardwood as I made my way into my kitchen and opened my refrigerator. I pulled out some orange juice and poured myself a glass. The same amount, every morning. No pulp, no nothing. It never changed. The soothing acid from the juice flowed down my throat as I grabbed two slices of bread and slipped them into the toaster. I started the toaster and went over to my phone.

Any messages?

No.

There never were.

I walked back over to my toaster as the two slices popped out and I snatched them quickly, smearing some jelly on each slice and pressing them together. I headed swiftly to the door, taking a bite as I walked. I picked up my keys from the bowl next to the door, and left my house. I locked the door, turned, and headed for my truck. The same old red truck my father used to drive around town. He had been famous for that truck, helping out around the town as it was in his nature.

Did I ever stop to help?

I started my truck up and turned the CD player on. There was always the same cd in the car, always the same songs.

I had added the CD player onto the truck after my dad had died. You see, he had always been old fashioned, or stubborn, too much so to ever update his precious truck. I had not been so stubborn.

The same, simple tune came on, filling my ears with comfort. I wanted nothing but comfort, nothing out of the ordinary. I drove the familiar road over the hills, around the curbs, past the few houses that inhabited this island of my home. The incline became steeper as my truck climbed up the hilly plateau until I was finally at the highest point on the island. The trees behind me, the sea out in front of me. The salty wind sweeping through my hair, intoxicating my senses. I felt drunk off of my memories. I got out of my truck, and walked slowly up to the edge of the plateau. This spot overlooked the entire island, and I could see each house, every tree, every nook and every detail of the island was within my sight. Every memory, every painful moment of my life overwhelmed me up here, each and every time I came up here.

I came up here often.

The three of us used to come up here when we were kids. It had been a sort of adventure, an enjoyable activity that we did each week that kept us close, kept us together.

They hadn't been up here in eight years.

But I had.

I had come each and every day, never failing in my commitment to make it here each and every morning to watch the sunrise.

The red of the sky made me yearn for escape. The beauty of the sunrise always brought a paradox of feelings upon me. The beauty astonished me, each and every morning, a new miracle. And yet, the beauty was corrupted, tainted, and forever would be nothing but a source of agony for me.

This place was so beautiful, so connected to my past. Each memory of my life seemed to flow as one here, and I felt different here. It intoxicated me, filling me with regret. It was here where I came each morning to think. It was here where I came, each morning for eight long years. It was here where I found my solace, here where I found my soul.
It was here where, day after day, morning after morning, sunrise after sunrise…

I came here, every morning, for one purpose, one reason…

It was here where I came each morning to die.

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That is the end of Chapter 1, I would appreciate it if you could review so that I could write the next chapter with your reviews in mind!