18 views
🐎 When The Saddle Still Fits 🐎
The pain had been all too real but he had long ago come to realize that sometimes, for some people, life was just going to be like that and through experience he had begun to understand fully that it always would be. It was 'a gift' that he had soon learned was the ultimate curse, to seek truth and see it clearly in a world that thrives on lies. There should have been some comfort in the clarity of vision, the understanding of events bordering and often entering into the realm of crairvoyence but comfort these days, even conferred, seemed to be a very far-flung idea based on the origionation of ideal suffering; just comparative worth analysis.
Even his enemies had been somewhat gracious, not what he would term his treatment 'vicious', just vivid and illustritive of the deeply shattered psyche of the world he inhabited. He wasn't entirely certain that they even thought of themselves as enemies since several had stated that it was 'just the job'.
Certainly they did their utmost to ruin his life but they considered that just to just be what they did in a day and he certainly wasn't the only victim. He couldn't, in complete honesty say that whenever he was younger he hadn't been cut from the exact cloth that they were formed from before his coming to terms with the fact that few within an evil regime consider themselves as anything other than doing their jobs; very seldom 'the baddies'.
None of that make the resultant loss feel any better and the fact that no one was coming to help felt like the lid to his coffin slammed shut. At this point he heard them dancing on his grave. He didn't think, at any point in his life, he had ever been thrown quite so far and hard but pain felt different through the lens of age. His old broken bones didn't quite fit in his body in the exact same manner in which they did in the days they were formed. All those years of movement, the breaking and bending, knitting and restructuring tended to make them interrupt one another as they moved on their arcs of movement. It didn't really matter if the arcs of movement were slow or fast, gentle or abruptly abbreviated; they all hurt.
The old man had been more than right; it wasn't only dangerous to go alone, it was absolutely deadly and the cost of failure was of the magnitude that it rarely left opportunity for time to reflect or even regret the choices, right or wrong. On most of his adventures and endeavors in the past he could have easily said that it had been worth the entire time and effort spent, that the trouble had been well worth the payment that was exchanged for the value received.
This time he still felt himself consciously and sub-consciously tallying up the totals and he had no idea what the figure beneath the double score would show. He most likely wouldn't have a clue for years to come what that cost was going to be because that was the way psychopaths worked and he now had a literal army of them after hin that he understood would give him no rest.
One thing was for certain, it had cost him the life that he had known and nothing would ever be the same, even if he could remain sane and that was questionable. In retrospect, having actually died more than once, he thought that simply losing all of his material possessions and the practices that amounted to what one would usually consider daily occurrences and happenstance certainly wouldn't seem, to the outside obsrver, absolute rock bottom. That, however, was a comparative-worth-analysis statement and not realized from the place of self-actualization.
He had even said to some of his hunter/assailaints that the life he was leading wasn't really much of a life at all, living in the desert among the snakes and panthers, no water or electricity but somehow it was all the blades still protruding from his back that wouldn't let him rest solid and dead like they wanted him to. A homeless stray was one thing to torture and put down; a hunting dog off lead, absent his handler let alone master, another matter entirely that drew attention. In the end a ronin hunter of the dark and subversive, defending the helpless in the wild was generally put down by exactly what it hunted, evil.
Unfortunately that generally made little noise unless they wanted it to in order to vilianize the operator and operation to boost thair false virtue signal. It attracted little to no attention or concern in a world gone mad and bad, one that had launched over the precipice of desteuctive oblivion, a world like the one he currently inhabited.
He groaned as he leaned forward and picked up the dictation handpiece and flipped on the 65in screen, then he picked some pulsing synth music and tried to power through a few pages of purposely disassociated facts that he had no real hope of even seeing the light of day until long after his death.
"Of all the things I've ever managed to be, I miss me the motoring in the mist on my Triumph the most." He crowed out through his once-severed throat, past his scarred vocal chords. 'of all Dee dings I've never marriages to be on miss me Motoring in the mid stomach cramps the most' came up on the screen. He sighed and laid it back down on the wireless charging pad.
"Keyboard it is." He mumbled. He couldn't really say that he had an aversion to typing with his thumbs however the orange cat that regularly inhabited his lap had an affinity for the device and regularly decided to slam its head and face into it. The fox said his hand has been shattered also didn't help much. He had long since laid up and down and missed writing enough he had purchased the optional active rechargeable stylus for the folding handpiece. He often found himself pecking away with it because of the pain in his hands and his large and somehow still muscular fingers but seldom bothered to write with it the way that he thought that he would. The orange tabby that regularly made biscuits on his chest would slap at it as he did no matter how many times he appealed to her to just take a nap. young and lied she was often into things, currently streaking by with an empty shopping bag on her head.
He sighed and picked up another controler from on the old ornate coffee table. Nearly four years ago he had been far enough in the wild world he would be taking his breaths in for some time to come in the future to knoe that there would be horses and flying but he also knew that he would be starting from zero, much like his real life had become and for precisely the same reason.
She had taken it all, erased all the good done and left it for dead in the rain, abandoning the dog as she fled. He didn't have much to show for any of it but the one thing he and they now had was bad blood and for some reason he had the inkling that it would flow.
© Satu
Even his enemies had been somewhat gracious, not what he would term his treatment 'vicious', just vivid and illustritive of the deeply shattered psyche of the world he inhabited. He wasn't entirely certain that they even thought of themselves as enemies since several had stated that it was 'just the job'.
Certainly they did their utmost to ruin his life but they considered that just to just be what they did in a day and he certainly wasn't the only victim. He couldn't, in complete honesty say that whenever he was younger he hadn't been cut from the exact cloth that they were formed from before his coming to terms with the fact that few within an evil regime consider themselves as anything other than doing their jobs; very seldom 'the baddies'.
None of that make the resultant loss feel any better and the fact that no one was coming to help felt like the lid to his coffin slammed shut. At this point he heard them dancing on his grave. He didn't think, at any point in his life, he had ever been thrown quite so far and hard but pain felt different through the lens of age. His old broken bones didn't quite fit in his body in the exact same manner in which they did in the days they were formed. All those years of movement, the breaking and bending, knitting and restructuring tended to make them interrupt one another as they moved on their arcs of movement. It didn't really matter if the arcs of movement were slow or fast, gentle or abruptly abbreviated; they all hurt.
The old man had been more than right; it wasn't only dangerous to go alone, it was absolutely deadly and the cost of failure was of the magnitude that it rarely left opportunity for time to reflect or even regret the choices, right or wrong. On most of his adventures and endeavors in the past he could have easily said that it had been worth the entire time and effort spent, that the trouble had been well worth the payment that was exchanged for the value received.
This time he still felt himself consciously and sub-consciously tallying up the totals and he had no idea what the figure beneath the double score would show. He most likely wouldn't have a clue for years to come what that cost was going to be because that was the way psychopaths worked and he now had a literal army of them after hin that he understood would give him no rest.
One thing was for certain, it had cost him the life that he had known and nothing would ever be the same, even if he could remain sane and that was questionable. In retrospect, having actually died more than once, he thought that simply losing all of his material possessions and the practices that amounted to what one would usually consider daily occurrences and happenstance certainly wouldn't seem, to the outside obsrver, absolute rock bottom. That, however, was a comparative-worth-analysis statement and not realized from the place of self-actualization.
He had even said to some of his hunter/assailaints that the life he was leading wasn't really much of a life at all, living in the desert among the snakes and panthers, no water or electricity but somehow it was all the blades still protruding from his back that wouldn't let him rest solid and dead like they wanted him to. A homeless stray was one thing to torture and put down; a hunting dog off lead, absent his handler let alone master, another matter entirely that drew attention. In the end a ronin hunter of the dark and subversive, defending the helpless in the wild was generally put down by exactly what it hunted, evil.
Unfortunately that generally made little noise unless they wanted it to in order to vilianize the operator and operation to boost thair false virtue signal. It attracted little to no attention or concern in a world gone mad and bad, one that had launched over the precipice of desteuctive oblivion, a world like the one he currently inhabited.
He groaned as he leaned forward and picked up the dictation handpiece and flipped on the 65in screen, then he picked some pulsing synth music and tried to power through a few pages of purposely disassociated facts that he had no real hope of even seeing the light of day until long after his death.
"Of all the things I've ever managed to be, I miss me the motoring in the mist on my Triumph the most." He crowed out through his once-severed throat, past his scarred vocal chords. 'of all Dee dings I've never marriages to be on miss me Motoring in the mid stomach cramps the most' came up on the screen. He sighed and laid it back down on the wireless charging pad.
"Keyboard it is." He mumbled. He couldn't really say that he had an aversion to typing with his thumbs however the orange cat that regularly inhabited his lap had an affinity for the device and regularly decided to slam its head and face into it. The fox said his hand has been shattered also didn't help much. He had long since laid up and down and missed writing enough he had purchased the optional active rechargeable stylus for the folding handpiece. He often found himself pecking away with it because of the pain in his hands and his large and somehow still muscular fingers but seldom bothered to write with it the way that he thought that he would. The orange tabby that regularly made biscuits on his chest would slap at it as he did no matter how many times he appealed to her to just take a nap. young and lied she was often into things, currently streaking by with an empty shopping bag on her head.
He sighed and picked up another controler from on the old ornate coffee table. Nearly four years ago he had been far enough in the wild world he would be taking his breaths in for some time to come in the future to knoe that there would be horses and flying but he also knew that he would be starting from zero, much like his real life had become and for precisely the same reason.
She had taken it all, erased all the good done and left it for dead in the rain, abandoning the dog as she fled. He didn't have much to show for any of it but the one thing he and they now had was bad blood and for some reason he had the inkling that it would flow.
© Satu
