The Desires of a Delinquent

Hanson glared at me tempestuously. Through his eyes, I perceived, I was somewhat responsible for the contingency that had befallen him. I had, as I willingly admit, known of his intense, almost uncontrollable, desire, his lust for Greta. But I was not the epicentre for his misery.

The calamities which had previously taken refuge in Hanson’s mind were ones he greatly abhorred. He had only done what he thought, though he rarely did, was the best to suit his own selfish purposes. But like so many others in this egoistically-spun world he could not constrict the vanity in his heart. The excessive magnitude of drugs he consumed, as the idea where hierarchy, pain and troubles ceased to exist, with the exception of his own autonomous hierarchy, a place where the illusion of a perfect limitless existence without troubles merged with the existence which man perceives and the two realities are entwined together to form a new reality through his mind, and fragments of his true deluded self become but a myth, was not curing him of mental state but developing it. Which in turn made him loathe himself more whenever his mind freed itself from the sanctuary that entangled him therein. For even in its serenity it was truly a demon of the night, though only the sane aspect of what remained in him could see it for what it really was. Thus at times, like his present state, he felt more so depressed of his life than ever had previously felt before.

As a friend of Hanson and of Greta I was asked to acquire through whatever means necessary the tidings of Greta’s heart. As to whether she did indeed feel the need to rest her weary head upon Hanson’s firm shoulder. And if such a feeling was found to be fictional, I should be required to manipulate her thinking into believing that her own faithful heart found its end to a long pursuit for tranquility in his eyes. I felt that as a comrade of this poor deranged but devious delinquent, and also for pity, that would sooth the anguish he felt and thus cure me also of the suffering which was afflicted on me by such pain of another. Hence, I concluded, for the profit of both entities, I should help him to see the truth of his present purpose of existence as was by him deemed.

But I felt that as Greta’s sentinel I should not try to persuade her to think false thoughts. For that was no doubt out of the question. I had left the road of iniquity long ago. But this story resides on the scrutiny of Hanson, not of me. So words were spoken and promises were made. I left Hanson standing silently at the rendezvous watching me leave. Heading straight for Greta’s dwelling, I focused my mind on what needed to be done. I was intent on seeing both Hanson and Greta happy. Upon arriving at the house in which my objective would either be fulfilled or frustrated, I took heed to all the egresses if the discussion should so choose to turn sour. I sat casually on the couch and Greta and I entered into discourse. I was enlightened to the endeavours of her day, and had in words, which I may never repeat due to the empowerment it would have on all those who listen to this story of mine, talked to her of her thoughts concerning Hanson and used persuasion to confess all her desires and her lusts. Hanson was not a large portion of these. In all truth he was but a small quantity of it. Knowing now the truth behind the bars of Greta’s skull I had fulfilled what I had told myself I would do, I would go no further. So bidding Greta adieu, I left and headed to the subsequent rendezvous in which Hanson vigorously rested with a sense of hope sparkling in his eyes.

Entering the dark gloomy room my eyes took a moment to adjust. As my focus came back to me I saw sitting on a chair rocking slowly back and forth, legs slung over the arm, Hanson. He looked miserable. I figured he had already taken into acceptance the news which I had not yet given him. Hanson had already presumed that the news was ominous. I sat down slowly and spoke audibly and truthfully. He cringed at my words but I did not stop. He deserved the truth, at least the truth. So the whole truth I told and took not a breath until I was done. “Thus,” I concluded, “you must advance on your journey without her.” Ouch! The words were Brutus’s dagger. The poor guy was breaking down inside. The azure of his sky had turned red. Hanson glared at me tempestuously. Through his eyes, I perceived, I was somewhat responsible for the contingency that had befallen him.

Written by Andrew Wilson