the short story project


Enes Taha Erdogan

Inglorious Bastards


  I constantly hear the bitter voices, crying. `for what’, I shout, no response. They furiously maintain their dramatic melancholy. I pace passionately onto them to ask ‘why’, shivering with trepidation that pleasures my texture a little more. My foresight dulls; I cannot comprehend what it is nor imagine the future correctly. I go on, with slow feeble paces, almost staggering now. My sight slightly blurs. Right foot ridiculously knots. The cacophony of sadness and loneliness from the voices surrounds all over my ears. It becomes more distinct and intense. It seems like I am getting close, Or they are, incomprehensible anymore. I lose my ability to judge the time, the place, the situation. The environment is filled with closely scattered big trees, the leaves prevent my eyes from seeing the sky, offering a scary circumstance, as I like it. Leaves are rustling startlingly. It is almost clouded around, brimmed with moisture. I can barely peer through to the dejecting place but easily able to hear the grass grow. Hearing is too detailed as if other senses drown out by my olfactory, leaving a discriminatory ability to my ears. Still walking, spotting three black dots now. It is reminding me of the eye service places, where the black spots are put in front of you with white letters in it to find out whether you can see the letters or not.` I guess my dreadful times in childhood passing by with familiarity’. I chuckle to the idea. I think the situation I am in is not dire yet. I can still make jokes!

As I approach more closely, I begin to conceive the silhouettes of the three black dots. One of them is an old grandmother, seated on the walnut chair, still crying with her muffled voice, almost slobbery from the throat, she’s on the verge of fainting, trying to forcefully get rid of the two beautifully black-dressed granddaughters who are seemed to be firmly holding their grandmothers’ armpit, and robbing the back of her when it is possible. The sense of disconsolation reflecting the two faces. Surprisingly, only two of them with morose faces, looking downward to the seems like a big fragment of situated rectangular rock. One image abruptly shines to my sight and makes my heart pound powerfully. A detailed scene strolls through my mind. And makes me gaze upon the one girls’ pocket, to a secretly kept sharp dagger. `Appealing’, I say, with the expectation of a spur of the moment excitement. A familiarity, that I exquisitely feel, roving about my body with unbearable pressure.  Making my fine hair straight with a tiny thrill. The blood runs within my eyes, donates a sanguine color to it. The red tone is as dusky and fresh as my mental tragedy. This instant dense moment of the dagger blocks any other feelings but the dagger. Everything becomes foggy but the brimming light of the beautiful pointedness of it. I suffuse with a sudden admiration for the splendrous razor. Convinces me to focus on its attractive death-offering acute sharpness. `Probably, she was going to stab them in their heart’, I think offhandedly. Weeping’s of the two stunning girls, who are rubbing the grandmothers back now, shines on my oblivious face. Brims me with the bead of tears that are, supposedly, completely the result of unexpected ZEAL that is over me. I take my handkerchief and wipe the tears as I walk upon them. Unbeknownst to me, the expected emotion of sadness creates a reverse effect and makes me feel the very tinges of vehement. It leaves me with the powerful strikes of my heart. I am quite a bit striding now, to increase the enthusiasm of this monumental catastrophe. It doesn’t comfort me, my legs become numb but able to run, but at the same time I start to run, their presence begins to be wandering away either, `are you kidding me’, I shout, disillusioned to the scene. I accelerate, even though I am aware it will be aggravated. My legs become exhausted from waiting for the end of the scene. It converts my gait into dash now. But as much as I wanted otherwise, the long pathway between me and them exponentially expands. The images of three black spots dull by degree. They are slowly fading away. The emotions that I couldn’t be able to feel for seemed like years are gone. Erratically tinged with peevish images are gone. I, the infuriated, shout fiercely again, exaggerated this time, and then I accidentally put an end on this grimy entertainment.

My eyes wide open laying in my bed, the brim of sunshine seeps through my new curtain and meets my tiny, as well as intricate room. The lines of sunshine are so intense and distinct as vestiges of my sleep that I find my consciousness in now. Suddenly, I realize the not beeping alarm clock that I yesterday set. `Interesting’, I whisper to myself. Then I rise out of my bed to check the time from my watch on the table. Gazing to my downward, detecting the body of my dad. With the attack of sudden surprise, I instantly bounce back a bit. `Jesus Christ dad, you scared me’ I say. No response. Asleep for sure. I slowly pass over him to lean on the watch above the table. I see, It’s 8 o`clock. I certainly missed the school bus. OK, cool. But why mom didn’t raise the hell out of me at my tardiness. If I know her a bit. Which I know. She certainly would throw my bedsheet and shout nonchalantly. Probably, the overwhelming vestiges of my dream reached a tangibility that scared and repelled my mom to come here, I blast a morning bray of laughter in a self-loathing way. Almost sarcastically in my state of ambivalence. I don’t know why she is not here, nor do I know why my dad still laying on my carpet. I go to take a shower and do my morning praying near my dad, silently, to not wake him up. During the praying, he wakes up with an outlook that seems like water splashed on his face. What a baby, crying on my carpet with a picture on his hand; I tell myself. It makes me grin, but of course, inside my head. I am praying. `Little respect please, sorry.’ I talk to myself.

Beautiful morning, from sunshine to temperature. But no voice inside the house, motionless. Descending on the long ladder goes to the salon to see someone. I endeavor to walk with an amble to not make any noise. Because I am aware of being late to school and my mom would kill me for that. Instantaneously confronting with my very formally prepared father at the door. I hide at the top of the ladder and direct my glance at him. Observing gives me a suspensive outlook. It’s almost sardonically hilarious of the fact that my father has no occupation nor a degree on any level whatsoever. However, I possess the idea of a compelling deed is going on. I furtively follow my oblivious father and my intuitive, to justify my anticipation. I warily get down on the stairs and gently open the door. It cracks a bit, distracts my focus on the pursuit of action. But it doesn’t matter. Before I start my journey, I rove about the table right behind me and spot the new dark glasses of my father that he usually forgets. I put the glasses on and grin to an encroaching opinion of being a character like a tom cruise on his way to the victim. `Unnegotiability of my love of fright and zeal to the unknown is irreplaceable’, I say passionately. `And therefore, I officially commence my voyage’. I finish my speech with an authoritative standing as I close the door. Straighten my back up and I enthusiastically march forth.

On my way halfway through I behold my father so covertly as a brutal lion preparing for his lunch. He is now customarily trudging to his way, almost blithely. With his black shoes and black suit. He is not a scrupulous person but everything about him is well detailed right now, from well-put tie to exact lines of crease lines. Except for his walking every detail is measured. I will admit that it suits my father. He turns right, beckons swiftly to the flower selling guy and purchases few flowers, carnations specifically, my favorites. Well, something is going on, why the hell did he buy some carnations? Is he cheating? or, or worse, he may be cheating for a long duration because as far as I am concerned, he never purchases such flowers in the first place, even to my mom he hadn’t purchased. Of course he is, now it makes sense, he waited in my room for hours to go to his cheek and when he noticed me awake. He straightly headed to his lovely meeting. What a degenerate he is that even did achieve to nonplus me. I maintain my pursuit of truth, by following a disgrace. And If my prediction that I revealed is true, which I don’t wish on any level, I act as justice directs.

Finally, get through an isolated place where the destination is close to an end. Nevertheless, as much as I can peer and focus on his hideous face. It’s still watery. He is seemingly sweating. Hands are sweaty as well, barely holding himself together, maybe he doesn’t grasp the idea of the present. Is he drank, maybe yes, maybe not? Nothing is certain anymore. I cannot take the courage of claiming something bad with absolute certainty nor can I do act as I perceive. He is moderately walking now with slow paces. He deliberately gets his handkerchief and slowly wipes his face, mostly his ruddy eyes. Eventually, he gets through a forest with scattered trees so densely and closely spaced as my tightly arranged prejudices and imaginations. He is now paralyzed instantly, motionless. He sags flabbily down to his knees in a matter of seconds. As if he grieves of a dead child of him. He does so with long-waited senility. Slow and powerless. I wondered why and begin to revolve far around him. I incidentally notice some black dots in front of him as I run through the circle to get a better sight. The image gradually becomes clear. Eventually, I spot something that looks like the eye service places where black spots put in front of you with letters in it to find out whether you can see the letters or not. A sudden realization of familiarity whops to my senses. And leaves a disturbing shiver. The frightening breeze among the trees hits my texture, rustles the leaves, shakes and straightens my body, in an out of control way. I warily march through the unexpected similarity of the environment. Around me surrounds with darkness. As I carefully get closer, as if it is affecting my vision, the long pathway between me and them seemingly begins to expand. Slightly, I hear the bitter voices. Crying maudlinly, shouting ragefully. `Isn’t the older ones black hat is the same with my gift to my grandmother on her 57th birthday?’ I ask myself as if questioning my power of recollection. Fear that I normally seek in my dreams, becomes real now and leaves a scar in my face. A color, as much dusky, and ruddy as my abrupt mental tragedy, it makes my cheeks hot. And that is the result of the realization of the hat.

My walk becomes uncontrollable, my tangibility, literally, steadily fades away. I cry out to end this nonsense, I try to stand still, but it has no use. I shriek, shout at the top of my lungs. But it has no help. The power is beyond me. I cannot see nor sense the power yet, but it seizes me. The power grabs me in my crotch, legs and arms. Pulls me so intensely. Hauls in a stable speed that I have no control whatsoever. A desperate endeavor to clutch the grass appears on me, and immediately ends with the emerge of muddy hands beneath me. They grab my arms tightly, pulling them up. Therefore, it distorts my endeavor into a nonsense act. I sense of sticky hands all over me. Slowly dragging me down to them, to those little black dots. As I forcefully hauled near them, I become able to see the dots and discern their black formal dresses, as formal as my dad’s. ‘I know one of them’, I say realizingly. ‘Don’t I know the old one? the blue kerchief, the belligerent gleaming eyes, even the navy black dress with the crooked hem. They are all familiar.’ with an instant shock of comprehension, I continue to unfold.

My grandmother, my mother and, and, one more girl that I can’t recognize. Furiously crying shouting and mourning at each other, I raise my head to the direction I am heading. At a tomb that has my name writing on the tombstone. I am still hauled to the grave by an enormous force. I can feel the glees of those sick souls that are clapping my arms, legs and soul. And by degree, I am being reached to where I belong by the greater source. Suddenly I cannot cease the think of the dream`s end. The end that offered me a sense of nonplus. And that was the beautifully dressed girl that had something in her pocket. The material that had the brimming light with the Incredible attractiveness of the vibrant reflections on the sharpness. The overwhelming moment. The Dagger.

The instantaneous deactivation of the greater source creates orthostatic hypotension. Dazzles my eyes. It makes me light-headed and dizzy. Wavering my senses slightly. I am currently stunned, frozen. Those little malevolent bastards appear from the ground, top to the bottom, with their evil glees. Seemingly, I am possessing a character of a toy, of the entertainment of the spooks. Their expressionless faces don’t feel anything but a pure joy of someone else’s` melancholy. They seem to be feeding themselves with the shouts of the victims. As they grew louder and bigger, the youngest, so-called supportive girl that I cannot recognize still. Cautiously takes his evil hand out of the armpit. Stops slowly rubbing the back of my grandmother. Furtively, and stealthily, puts the hand inside her pocket. Strolls it to look for the vibrant beauty. I begin to shout instinctively, coalesced with little whispers to myself. `This is not real, this is not real, this is not real’. My chest tightens face flushes. It reflects the grieve that I extremely feel to very marrows in my bones. `But why is she doing this’. I say groaningly. My sobbing voice thrills those bastards more and more. With an instinctive impulse, I explosively flicker my arms and hands as if to lean over to that weasel girl. Desperate. As if to shout, `be careful she got a knife.’ But it’s too late. They can neither sense nor imagine me. My imploring brings the worse out of that girl. And with an abrupt covert movement, she stabs the razor-sharp dagger to my innocent mom. She is paralyzed, trying to comprehend the tragedies that are unfolding, from my death to a betrayal that will be the cause of her death. The impact of the dagger doesn’t influence mom for an intense 3 seconds, everything becomes black, the bead of tears falls from my face one by one. However, the ultimate melancholy I am in now doesn’t suffice them and they make me feel physically too. The ache of heat that I feel inside my heart converts into a sudden burn. `But why’, I try to groan as if it is my last words in the world as a soul. She doesn’t stop, spears one more time. Mother’s mouth wide open with surprise, slobbers. Intense tingle follows, like a severe electric shock. Then she panics and senses a burning, searing pain in her stomach, as I intensely feel right now. Cold sweat from adrenalin accompanies her. With a sudden impact that pushes her back. She sags flabbily. I moan and wail at the same time, implore them to stop. However, It’s futile. They make me watch with my bare eyes and feel the scene. I cry from the tightened chest. The emotional ache turns into physical pain, hurting my chest muscles. And at the end, one last time, I sardonically blast a bray of laughter and become one of US, The Inglorious bastards.


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