Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 7 Read Free

job.
    Nevertheless, as he lay writing, leaning back on the headboard of his bed, the silence screamed at him. An indifferent chill oozed over the large emptiness in the remaining space of the bed, creeping closer. Only the scraping nub of his pen on paper in his leather bound diary whispered to the air until he finally stopped writing. The mask of serenity remained unbroken on his fair features.
    He was still distressed. The gnawing feeling continued to eat at his gut and push agonisingly against his stomach and lungs, shattering his reverie. There was nothing else to do, and he could not risk another emotive episode again. Feeling on edge, living, is not a healthy position to be in.
    Standing with a sudden precision, his feet touched the ground with no sound. Jeremy left his softly illumined bedroom and crossed the hallway to deposit his writing implements in their respective drawers and shelves on the oak sideboard piece. He journeyed downstairs to the split open plan living room and kitchen. His home was large by old standards, but was a palace for any other person, with a few thousand square feet of space personally designed and built by Jeremy decades ago with the aid of his now deceased family members.
    He sat on an overstuffed chair in the living room, standing comfortably by the wall with the iron-sheltered fireplace gluttonously roaring with a golden flame. He gazed though the gallery style windows at the back of his property to the field and woods beyond it. The sight always astounded him and reminded him of the magical stories stored in the library.
    In the twilight, laid back in the deep seat, he watched the flickering flames in the fireplace cast golden globes on the shining glass. Most shimmered, but some danced with consistency. Jeremy took great liking in following two globes float slowly across the glass like eyes in the night. His thoughts slowed as the globes died as they left the glass edge, and he slept.
    His last conscious thought was to get some flowers for the vase on the table next to the front door, opposite the stairs splitting his home in half. The vase, a family heirloom, was the only object left to him that did not include more Responsibilities. Consequently, as the last of his line, the vase only symbolised the familial pressure on him to extend the only branch bloodline. It was about time for him to fill it with something worthwhile, even if temporary, before he decided to get rid of such a gloomy antique. After all, I am (what they call) gay .
    CHAPTER 3 – The Encounter
    I went to the collection point today, by the Wall's entrance, next to the area with the sensitive camera. Fresh milk and eggs spoil after the fourth day, so it was while I was on a usual collection that I also went and gathered some wild flowers along the way for the vase. However, the first time I got some flowers was a while back; I just did not have the inclination to document it.
    The kitchen usually is fully stocked by the next stop at the collection point: a normal meal would feed me for a week, if it ever lasted that long. My immortality reduces my need for conventional food due to my slow routine. Only with that recent fright did my appetite rear its head for something wholesome and hearty in the morning. Nevertheless, even that did not dent the stock or supplies. So on most of my outings for flowers I didn't have any other necessities to procure.
    The pain still won't go away. No matter how I run it through my mind, I can't think of any thought or memory that could be running amok. There is nothing left to cause any more pain or possible injury. The pain is still excruciating; a burning, with no heat, in my chest; and my food becomes a viscous paste in my throat and turns to acid in my gut. I know I have been subjected to something, and it hurts. But, for the life of me, I don't know what!
    At least I still look better than the curdled milk or rotten eggs I threw to the forest refuse pit.
    ~ Jeremy, November 29th,