kafkaesque: having a nightmarishly complex, bizarre, or illogical quality.
Five months. To think that Layla could go on without Jasper for that long was improbable, and how she managed was beyond her comprehension. Amidst what felt like endless shoots and demands at work, the blonde had spent weeks in desperate search of some sort of sign that Jasper was indeed alive and well. She even went as far as contacting his housekeeper, Lupe, but alas -— no avail. He had vanished, and along with his absence he had taken what remained of Layla’s heart.Through a fortunate turn of events she was being driven to the man she loved, which made Layla feel a mixture of joy, nerves, and relief. It could be that this was life’s reward for her past efforts, or a simple twist of fate — if it even existed. Did it? If Layla wasn’t a believer in such infantile concepts, being able to witness Jasper’s presence once more was enough of a sign to completely change her mindset. At last, after months of aimless wandering, Jasper had stepped into her life just as unexpectedly as he did when they first met. The blonde missed the hoarseness of his voice every time he awoke, how he would cuddle up in his sweatpants watching Fight Club — even the way his eyes crinkled whenever he smiled. She recalled every single detail, despite never having verbally expressed it. Perhaps she would learn to be a bit more open now, as this experience taught her the importance of making every minute count.
“Yes, this is the correct address,” Layla briefly thanked the cab driver as she slipped out some cash from her wallet. Within seconds she had been found strolling past a narrow stone-path, her eyes taking sight of the aesthetic qualities that nature had to offer. The soft pinks and purples in the ever-darkening skies, the soft chirping of crickets — it was unlike anything she had ever seen before. Enveloped around her were beautiful, statuesque Cherry Blossom trees, many of their petals gracefully laying atop the richly colored pastures. Through squinted eyes Layla was able to perceive an unknown black SUV up ahead, parked just beside a dainty little cabin. She froze in place momentarily, a hand reaching over her heart, which had been pounding heavily in her chest ever since she had landed on New Hampshire.
With a shaky but profound intake of breath, the blonde walked up the small steps that led to the front door, her hand clenching and releasing the handle on her suitcase. One light knock to the door and she had taken a step back, cobalt hues scanning the surrounding area. There was an aura of total tranquility radiating off of the evening skies, which somewhat helped soothe Layla’s nerves. For a minute there, she could have sworn to have heard the faintest sound of footsteps from within the cabin, but then again, it simply may have been her mind playing tricks on her.
Though he cast a large shadow in the sea of dull-witted sows, the area he was placed in was the opposite of that. Beneath snow-clad pines, blankets of stark white ice crystals, and violet evening skies, there was no other world where he could feel small in– a minuscule mouse in a thousand trees. His cabin was made out of wood, and every single time he would slip his lighter out of drenched pockets of nothing, there would be a dull ache in his stomach that preserved ceaseless amounts of fear and trepidation.
He ached for the touch of his significant other, the meagre sensation of her existence, the sound of her simulating locutions of the olden times, and the smile he read from her azure hues. He thought faultlessness was mind-numbing, tedious and senseless. The junkie favored imperfection; contusions, letdowns, self-doubt. What was a person without their faults? The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars. But in ourselves, that we are underlings. The brilliant remembrance of his college years are brought upon in his mind’s eye, an atrocious morsel of his pre-adult years. He recollects being Brutus, and remembers growing accustomed to the persona he advanced. But then he remembers—it was but a character, yet he resembled Brutus as any man bears resemblance to his blood relations. It startled him, made him slash his indiscernible scar tissue into slivers of amethyst tinted flesh, shredding cyphers of elation, burning it into a searing black until there was nil but carnage. Brutus, treacherous and easy to swindle, green and murderous: he was the puppet of the gods, as Jasper was.
He’s dreaming, though. Or had he been nursing a reverie once again? For five months he had been hearing the voice of his lover’s, perceiving her in the obscure light as an apparition, a mere specter. The light of the darkness was his lone friend, the one he spoke to when unaccompanied—which had been more often than not. Yet he couldn’t help but feel— to some degree— of the idea that he had been on the rise of psychosis. Then again, half the populace of psychopaths know naught of their lunacy. “Layla…” He would breathe, listening to the name on his breath, permitting it to linger in the frigid air, pouring all affection and desire into the discernable forlorn sentiments that strung his face like the cords of a guitar. He yearned for her, every single night, with regret dense on his tongue, and tears absconding from detestable eyes. There was no escape from the steel confines of isolation.
But ah! He hears the knock of a door! Such wondrous fantasies that spring from his mind like a cerise rose bud. Eyes open, an indication that he was dreaming, and thus he arises. Robotic, he thinks, as the changed man lets scrawny limbs stretch. A beard had sprouted in his face, and he was as slender as ever, an undernourished boy fleeing from authorities. His hair had grown only slightly, but the streak that was once blonde was on the verge of going away. Jasper took light steps to his door, one hand clutching at the knob to turn and open it. There she was– his goddess of loyalty. He would have hopped in gaiety if he were someone else, but he did not. In glee’s stead, he cried. They were tears of the Anacostia River, shredding all hints of woe into the irrigation canals of this desolated New Hampshire area. He felt his knees give into the weight of all his burdens, and he fell to her feet, a stray dog who finally found his home: HER.