A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Waste
Fantom Destler
25 year old Male
Single Father of One
Victim of Circumstance
Sing once again with me
Our strange duet
Such a cool spring morning. The sun sat low on the hillside, it's soft rays laying gentle kisses upon the flower-box.
This small cottage on the outskirts of a once-great city was the residence of the last living members of the Destler name.
Fantom, a performer and manager of the local music theater, sat calmly at the kitchen table, reading about recent events.
Eve, the ten year old prodigy of art, was going through her usual morning routine. As she re-packed her back pack for the third time that morning, she quickly realized that her most favored part of her morning ritual had been overlooked.
Stuffing the head of her toothbrush into her moth, she ran down the stairs. Quickly she pulled a black smock over her usual white attire and sped into the kitchen. Upon entering the room, she smiled. There they were, her beautiful set of dyes, oils, paints and brushes.
Fantom smiled quietly behind his news, taking another sip of his morning tea. He didn't have to lower the paper to know the expression of joy on her face when she found a new detail paint-pen in the midst of the colorful mess. He could hear the jars cracking open, the stirring of oils and thinners as they were mixed on her pallet; and of course, the ever present stroking of bristles against the kitchen wall was the most repeated sound of all. The girl was an artist. there was no denying her talent. And, ever so thankful to have his kitchen repainted for little more then the price of the paints themselves, her father had no objections to allowing her to express herself in such a way every morning.
My power over you
Grows stronger yet
But as all good things go, it had to come to an end. The all too famous yellow submarine pulled down their road and it was time to go.
"Shoot! I'm going to be late!" the girl fussed, pulling off the smock and stuffed it in her already-crammed bag. She began to run out the door, but stopped short at the sound of her father's voice.
"You're forgetting something, Eve."
"What?! I've got my pencils, books, journal and and...!!"
The man smiled and laid down the paper and held out his arms.
"Oh..." quickly, she ran into his arms and give him a loving hug. "I love you, Papa."
Fantom smiled and kissed the girl's head. "I love you to. Don't worry about the paint, I'll clean it up."
Again, the moment was interrupted by the honking of the buss' horn. Tearing from her father's arms, she bolted out the door and boarded the transit vehicle.
Little did she know that the paints were not meant to be cleaned.
And though you turn from me
to glance behind
He lowered himself back into his wicker chair and settled into the soft pillows. Lifting his paper again to read further into this interesting events of the previous day, his hand extended and wrapped it's fingers around what he thought was his cup of tea. Pulling it over, he pushed the glass to his lips and drank deeply, downing the rest of the glass as to finish his own routine.
Alas, realizing his error, it was too late. The liquid which now saturated his inner workings was not sweet, warm and relaxing; but instead toxic and thick with the sour taste of death. His chair tipped back as he fumbled, still trying to grasp at his fleeting place among the living. But there was no hope. The world grew dark above him and slowly his muscles released their tensions.
And as such was his death.
The phantom of the opera is there
Inside your mind
Fantom Destler
25 year old Male
Single Father of One
Victim of Circumstance
Sing once again with me
Our strange duet
Such a cool spring morning. The sun sat low on the hillside, it's soft rays laying gentle kisses upon the flower-box.
This small cottage on the outskirts of a once-great city was the residence of the last living members of the Destler name.
Fantom, a performer and manager of the local music theater, sat calmly at the kitchen table, reading about recent events.
Eve, the ten year old prodigy of art, was going through her usual morning routine. As she re-packed her back pack for the third time that morning, she quickly realized that her most favored part of her morning ritual had been overlooked.
Stuffing the head of her toothbrush into her moth, she ran down the stairs. Quickly she pulled a black smock over her usual white attire and sped into the kitchen. Upon entering the room, she smiled. There they were, her beautiful set of dyes, oils, paints and brushes.
Fantom smiled quietly behind his news, taking another sip of his morning tea. He didn't have to lower the paper to know the expression of joy on her face when she found a new detail paint-pen in the midst of the colorful mess. He could hear the jars cracking open, the stirring of oils and thinners as they were mixed on her pallet; and of course, the ever present stroking of bristles against the kitchen wall was the most repeated sound of all. The girl was an artist. there was no denying her talent. And, ever so thankful to have his kitchen repainted for little more then the price of the paints themselves, her father had no objections to allowing her to express herself in such a way every morning.
My power over you
Grows stronger yet
But as all good things go, it had to come to an end. The all too famous yellow submarine pulled down their road and it was time to go.
"Shoot! I'm going to be late!" the girl fussed, pulling off the smock and stuffed it in her already-crammed bag. She began to run out the door, but stopped short at the sound of her father's voice.
"You're forgetting something, Eve."
"What?! I've got my pencils, books, journal and and...!!"
The man smiled and laid down the paper and held out his arms.
"Oh..." quickly, she ran into his arms and give him a loving hug. "I love you, Papa."
Fantom smiled and kissed the girl's head. "I love you to. Don't worry about the paint, I'll clean it up."
Again, the moment was interrupted by the honking of the buss' horn. Tearing from her father's arms, she bolted out the door and boarded the transit vehicle.
Little did she know that the paints were not meant to be cleaned.
And though you turn from me
to glance behind
He lowered himself back into his wicker chair and settled into the soft pillows. Lifting his paper again to read further into this interesting events of the previous day, his hand extended and wrapped it's fingers around what he thought was his cup of tea. Pulling it over, he pushed the glass to his lips and drank deeply, downing the rest of the glass as to finish his own routine.
Alas, realizing his error, it was too late. The liquid which now saturated his inner workings was not sweet, warm and relaxing; but instead toxic and thick with the sour taste of death. His chair tipped back as he fumbled, still trying to grasp at his fleeting place among the living. But there was no hope. The world grew dark above him and slowly his muscles released their tensions.
And as such was his death.
The phantom of the opera is there
Inside your mind
