A Trail of Dust

A Trail of Dust

"Last night I tried to commit suicide," Eric says.

"This cannot be," Mrs Bradbury cries. "Help me, please, please help me. A child sits before me and speaks forbidden words. The most macabre of proclamations has been heard. The horror! The horror! A desire for self-sacrifice has been highlighted at the expense of forgotten innocence. How can this be? How can this happen? I am lost; confused; confounded. The essence of being is placed upon a dissecting table of shock and torn asunder. Each brittle fragment crumbles to a fine and bitter dust; meaning is swallowed by the enigmatic depths of an untranquil sea. A surprised mind is shrouded by numb silence. Anxious tremors push forth from a horrified consciousness and are abruptly released. The horror presses firmly against startled eyes and glares at the asthenic boy on the play-mat. Two perturbed minds are fused by the unhindered gravity of reality. We are one and we are whole. But, no, no... This cannot be. How could such words corrupt the mind of one so young, so innocent? Nine years old and he speaks of death! The other children look at him, their faces befuddled and confused. These poor children - how little they know! I must stop panicking and control myself, this boy and the world entire - such is the dilemma, so consuming are the words. Oh Eric, why must you look at me for answers? Your life has touched upon unforeseen tragedy. I wish to know more; to seek answers; to discover the essence of you exposed intentions. The shoots of your melancholy have pushed into my awareness, blessed by the waters of panicked curiosity. My thoughts flow like a screaming wind, pushing against a dense forest of despair, but I remain silent. Eric, you are the blossom of spring, fresh and eager, abundant with promise, but falling, forever falling. Your mind is shedding the flowery blessings of childhood to expose the bare stalks of reality - withered, rugged, broken - reaching out towards a stormy sky. Those tempestuous words are quickly spoken but the enormity of their significance is unappreciated. They are loose disparities - vague connections - flowing in your mind like a cloak of mist, devoid of meaning, awaiting distillation by experience. "Last night I tried to commit suicide," he says. Hollow words flutter passively from his lips - needless, futile, misunderstood – gently released from the untouched recesses of a precious mind. He flirts with death, dances with destruction - but his promises are naive and empty. They shall not be acted upon. A head is raised and a fragile voice - meek, retiring, and stuttering – interrupts the silence. I have reacted. I have spoken. Words have abruptly parted from quivering lips. Calm, calm... everything must remain calm! A gentle voice hopes to smooth the subtle aches of a precocious melancholy. He smiles. He speaks. A tie, his school tie, wrapped around his neck and tightened to squeeze the blood from his brain. Alone in his bedroom he wanted to stop breathing. But why? He desired life no more. He wished to die. A fruitless effort, yes, but, nevertheless, the seeds of future sacrifice have been planted and rooted in the mind of this sacred child. I sigh, I pity - but no more words flow. A tongue lays detached from a body - paralysed; destitute; incapable of comforting vocalization. Annie Jenkins puts her hand up. A reluctant nod in her direction. Suicide. Suicide. What is suicide? Oh, Annie! How could you ask such a question? Do you not see that this tree of knowledge is devoid of fruit? I am no serpent: I cannot corrupt your chastity; I cannot speak the words you wish to hear. The entirety of my ignorance comes to light in your eyes. May you forever see me as the pitiful and vulnerable being I am - sad, lowly, without an essence of worth within my foundations. My knowledge is limited, my words sadly hindered. A sentence is awaiting construction; hesitantly forming behind baited breath, but the air remains caught in my lungs; the thoughtful compositions of speech refuse to be released. The air escapes as a sigh of desperation: no words appear. I am whole but cumbersome, sane but erratic... A back is arched against a chair: soft flesh pressed against a hard, cold surface. A heart pounds against a ribcage, scratching against the core of a soul. It pushes syrup-like blood through the confines of a petrified body. The children are sitting silently, patiently awaiting an answer. Twenty five innocent eyes are staring passionately at me, but I cannot give them their answer. An impenetrable barrier has erected itself between us. I speak of grammar, science, religion, mathematics - an endless array of subjects from the smallest atom to the largest galaxy. I speak of a rigid curriculum and offer the external world entirely, but I am too coy to reveal the personal. I am a mask; a shield. A steely shell is revealed to the world and that is all. The contents - warm, viscous, adhesive- remain encased in a prison of imagination. The succulence of a soul is spared the intrusions of observation. I speak of the very foundations of life - the materials and prospects of future employment- without envisioning an inevitable despair or passing judgement on significant events. What is right and what is wrong? Such questions have gone beyond my intellectual grasp. I think of the Ten Commandments - those sacred words etched onto a cold stone surface - solid, robust - on which human sin is controlled by condemnation. Thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt not kill. What shall I not kill? Other humans, yes, other humans... What about myself? Can my hands not pull the feared trigger of oblivion? Oh Eric, how could you? The sufferance of Christ should not be imitated. I cannot use religious discourse to explain your fate. You are a child. I am a child: I speak with a child's tongue. At once I have recognised the limitations of this existence. A panicked mind demands the necessity of wisdom. An unexpected crisis nurtures a fresh stream of thought; a lake of new ideas; a heightened perspicacity. A virgin agony searches for a path through the myriad complexities of a mind. An inner vision passes between discrete flashes of inspiration and pursues each incipient thought with eager interest before finally subsiding into nothingness; a cornerless chasm; a pang of hopelessness where great potential once lay. Annie, Annie! I cannot reveal the secrets of that ghastly word: your wish shall remain unfulfilled; your request is beyond my capacity. You must stroll across a sandy beach and search beyond the waves, beyond the distant horizon, to find what is imperceivable; what dances beyond the boundaries of an outstretched imagination. The trees push upwards to touch a glorious sun, the highest branches shake with earthly delight and kiss the sky with passionate embrace. An intricate pattern is sewn within the fabric of existence, weaving in and out of our lives, enlightened by the ebb and flow of the myriad thoughts and ideas contained within our souls. The dignified splendour of life should be enough to deter us from thoughts of destruction. But, yes, Eric, you are right to state your actions; Annie, you are wise to demand a response. There is indeed a grotesque shadow of doubt within the minds of the living. For love is met with hate, life with death. A compromise of extremes is established; excess is deterred. There remains wisdom far beyond the construction of words. It lurks, it hides - pushing against the turn of the Earth; the rise and fall of waves; the whisper of leaves and flight of wind. But your ears are too naive for despair, your hearts still young and free... Be happy whilst you can. Your lives are untainted by struggle: the burden of responsibility is not on your shoulders. This is why I must leave you in your state of ignorance. Do not let me corrupt you. I am not the serpent. I am not the beast. The sacred apple is yours to adore but not treasure, to savour but not bite. The caustic juices you crave will not flow from my lips. Let us forget this plaintive erudition. We must unlearn what has been revealed today. The frailties of life must be concealed - buried within the mortal dusts of the Earth. "Rest in peace" they say, and that will be the conclusion of our lives. A sigh is heard and all is calmed. Words flow from relieved lips. The gravity of a dreaded inevitability has defused. Eric sits before me and smiles with the satisfaction of revelation. A seed shall grow and blossom. A stalk shall stand tall and proud, its roots stretching down to the depths of the earth; stable, robust; clenching the fertile soil with might and glory. A path is cleared of haunting branches, a light is viewed. We walk onwards, slowly and surely, towards a preternatural illumination. Words are quickly forgotten. A trail of dust scatters. The children look towards a relieved teacher, their eyes shining with the joys of untouched youth. They raise their sweet voices in song, their high-pitched chirps blending into perfect harmony. A hymn is sung. A tear falls. All things bright and beautiful..."