Tired of Fatigue
-Tired of Fatigue-
By Luke Buttigieg
Humbly, and proudly, he ripped his fatigued legs up the top of the hill. When he got to the top of the hill, he sat quietly at the foot of a tree. Face red, about to explode with pressure from within. His face filled with blood, and sweat filled eyes. From his pocket he retrieved a knife. He flung the blade open and licked the blade. Blood strung out of his mouth and leaked down his shirt. The blood met the sweat and drifted out and drenched the pale white shirt that he was wearing. He moved the knife swiftly from his tongue and created a gash down his left forearm. As he tore through the flesh, his face gave motions of relief as the blood drained out from his face to his arm, leaving his face with a paler fašade. The pressure has let, and his pain was leaving. Completed by his actions he decides to go further, he raises his arm up into the air and brings the knife plummeting down into his stomach. Death…Immanent…Death upon…Death.
Brett is my imaginary cartoon maker. He likes to make cartoons using his computer properties. He writes them and animates them into life and gives them that special property of time. The feeling of movement and life dragged into a picture and made almost real. Made to have a life purpose. Given more realism and respect than a human being. Given more than Brett. The cartoons would be nothing without his touch or creativity, but he doesn’t get published so his creations don’t ever bring in any money. Brett is not appreciated for what he has done.
On the top of a building in the middle of town, the one and only man stands silently at the edge. Gun to temple, he leans forward. He falls and falls faster and faster. Whilst falling the floors of the building he pulls the trigger of the gun. His brains are splattered all over the glass of the building. “I HATE YOU DEATH – I'M COMING TO KICK YOUR ASS”.
“Crash”, his body makes contact with the asphalt but it does not crush. The asphalt breaks away from under him and he continues to fall into the unknown. He falls down, down to hell. He finally ends his descent and comes to a stop atop of a stalagmite. His heart pierced on the large mound of dripping water he ended. His is now at his end.
Take a step back and look: What do you see? I see thousands of stalagmites with the soulless bodies of thousands of men. I see death upon my body. I see an aura of hate and fear. I see my life, as it will be. My life as it will be for eternity. I am dead, but I still have my heart, and I have all my hate…
Brett seems to take his inspiration from his own life. I see now what he means in his cartoons. He has a lot to say, and I will listen to it through his cartoons, through them all. In his room, sitting on the floor, Brett sits and illustrates his feelings in a small black diary. He pictures all of his feelings and draws them onto his paper. He contains all his feelings inside of himself and splatters them all out onto paper to save himself from being consumed by hate and fear. He sometimes takes them and puts them into his cartoons, his creations.
Number one, number two, number three, number four…Number Forty-Five. The lonely woman moved onto her couch in the middle of the lounge room. She sat and reached for the remote control and turned the television on. She turned the volume down and started the CD player. It was playing “Time of your life” by Greenday… as the lyrics stated “I hope you had the time of your life”, her eyes rolled to the back of her head and a white foamy substance came rolling out of her mouth and down her shirt.
Too much of this makes me feel for Brett. Too much of this makes me cry, because these are all messages from Brett to us, the viewers, his only friends. All of this is making me sad. I'm sorry Brett. I have to kill you.
Luke Buttigieg…12th November 2000