Natasha M.

Quiones
English 111
September 25, 2014
College Narrative Draft #1

Temporary Travesty
For a brief moment, there is nothing. Not a single sound, not a single thought, not a single
soul. There is no beginning; there is no end; there is nothing. There is no fear, no love, no joy, no
bitterness, and no animation; there is only an eerie and tenebrous state of being. Obsolete.
Then, a single tick shatters the overwhelming silence. My comfort is gone. Im no
longer reassured of this tranquil consistency. A tock booms in the distance; a nuclear warhead
masquerading pseudo pleasantries disintegrates all the love that (n)ever existed within my
spoiled and wistful frame. I question what certifies fact from fiction; I speculate what
substantiates the being underneath my skin; from too many precarious thoughts, I fain.
October 1st, 2012
Chaos, my thoughts are living; theyre scattered and sprinting in all directions, trying to
escape Pompeii. Lava is burning, destroying, and scorching everything in my mind. I have a
migraine, so I release the multi-colored prisoners from their plastic prison and two at a time; they
hop in my mouth and scurry down my throat with jubilant screams and ease. The head count is
rising and if each were a penny, Id have a dollar and six cents as of now. I bow my head to the
drooling kitchen sink staring at me with warm wet lips and we both know Im unable to swallow
the remaining capsules lying on the counter.
Darkness: a purgatory before biblical interruptions of time. I should be dead; Im still
alive.

August 27th, 2004

My mom is conscious. Shell kiss me goodnight. Shell keep me warm. Shell pick out
my clothes. Shell plan my birthday parties. Shell cook the rice and beans her husband was
never able to perfect and bake loads of arid pork chops and insipid steaks. Shell still laugh when
I ask her, why does a cow wear bells? and allow me to reveal its because his horns dont
work. Like mother, like daughter. She failed; shes still here because of it.
Darkness: perpetual silence, from which I find comfort; Im alive, even when I sleep.
Eight years isolates my mothers path of destruction from my desire to concurrently
expire. The same saline solution circulates within our veins. Wearing the same hospital gown,
drinking the same viscid and inky serum, my mother and I fought parallel crusades. We, the
creatures, were revived by Frankenstein; we, the creatures, were shunned from the humanity we
so desperately craved; but we, the creatures, are existent.
I am bound to my temporary travesty. All the faults, misfortunes, trials and tribulations
Ive been graced with operate like the pistons within a vintage car, 1.21 gigawatts propelling the
dormant frame into the future with purpose. Richard Kelly portrayed destruction as a form of
creation, and this constant ebb and flow of chaos and order corresponds with my ability to
survive the otherwise expirable. The countless number of health practitioners that took part in
salvaging the corpse my soul refused to carry, embedded the consoling reality that all scenarios
are temporary; both lofty heights and stunted planes must return to equilibrium and that site will
forever be composed of darkness because for a brief moment, there is nothing. Not a single
sound, not a single thought, not a single soul. There is no beginning; there is no end; there is
nothing. There is no fear, no love, no joy, no bitterness, and no animation; there is only an eerie
and tenebrous state of being. Obsolete. I am alive, even when I am asleep.