this story starts at the end. not in a philosophical metaphorical sense of begining at an end, or the end being the last point in the timescale only the story has more impact if told backwards, those stories are best told by people with the capacity to pull it off. this story, instead, starts at the end of rationality. our hero is a simple man, no more special than you or i, no more aware of his position or place in life than the average man. the fact is, our hero is a nobody. he has never been placed in a situation whereby his cowardace could be observed, nor his temper angered or patience broken. victor, is a gentle natured man.

he kept a diary of what happened to him. we found it amongst the rubble, it's a compelling read, if somewhat longwinded:

My story is a sad one, I write it among rubble and disease with no hope in store and no future to look forward to. I write this in vain, in the hope that someone hears my story, understands my torment and appreciates what it takes to finally break down the soul and morality of a man in pain.
My name is Victor. I live in London and my history is irrelevant. Least to say I was an optimistic man, in love, secure in my job, happy with my family and content with my living situations.
We met 6 years ago while at the museum of natural history. Amongst the collection of crystals and mineral rocks we stumbled upon each other. What first caught me about her were her eyes, deep set and rich green, huge emeralds among the displays of amber and quartz. When our eyes first met we both looked away in a bashful manner, realizing she seemed as taken aback as I had been it took me no great courage to approach her. Gazing at bismuth I spoke to her, remarking how amazing the structure and pattern of the rock can be, like tiny forts and castles of never ending inner walls, up mountains of oil and labyrinths of corridors. She immediately saw through me and asked if wanted a drink. I would have drunk the world there and then if she’d asked me to.
It was a mere 4 months before we moved in together, into an apartment near Highgate. She chose the furniture and I paid for it. The only room I demanded custody of was the study, it needed to be like my fathers otherwise I couldn’t work. I write and illustrate children’s books. I have been published in 6 countries in 4 different languages, it’s not the most glamorous or credible jobs but it pays the bills, puts a roof over our heads and stops us from going hungry. My best seller was a story of a young puppy looking for his mother, who he believed lived in the sea. I hate to spoil the ending but the starfish tells him where his mother really is. Drawing is my real passion, I always draw the illustrations before completing some simple story to go around the images.
My soon to be wife was a teacher, she taught the very young, she taught the bare essentials to any childs life. The alphabet, the colours, the shapes, the names of tastes and the description of feelings. The things that get engrained in peoples lives forever and the things that are more important than you might have previously thought.

it goes on like this, pages and pages of lovelorn tripe and memories, as if memories where all that make life worth living. some pages are torn, some burnt and other illegable, others are just too boring to care about. we read his story though, we heard his tales, we only recount it to you now because it serves as a wonderful reminder, the past is past and nothing but a memory. while we are busy forging new memories the old ones get pushed aside. without the written words of our friend victor, he would have never had existed. i have my own memories, of course, of what happened and i only wish mine had been as mild as victors. my memories haunt me, scar and torment me, prevent me from sleeping and destroy any hope of a day devoid of desperation.


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