Simon King

"No-one comes here no more."

The path bore the traces of the convict. His steps ingrained themselves onto the dusty, muddy path. The convict looked ahead and saw the valley which stretched out to massive proportions: plain after plain mounting up and down hill after hill. This valley was desolate, inhabited about ten people and was accompanied by surrounding woods. The vision of all this, however, was positively refreshing; he had been accustomed to the incessant monotony of a prison cell, and this landscape revitalised him to the point of prompting him to run up and down the mountainous surface in exhilaration.

"This land is dead."

The officer reluctantly kept walking throughout the path, and the sun left blemishes on his skin. He ruminated, and in his contemplations realised that he missed his wife and two-year-old son. He also missed his music records whose sounds still remained deep within the depths of his subconscious and occasionally surfaced and replayed themselves in his conscious thoughts: a few bars of Schubert and a fragment of Bartok's Concerto for Orchestra. His mind kept digressing from his conviction to capture the convict. His motto 'work comes first, leisure second' was most apparent and relevant now. He took out a cigarette, lit it and inhaled the smoke. He came across footsteps which inundated themselves into the watery mud. These footsteps were fresh, and he realised that they must be the convict's. This trace encouraged him to move forward and dismantle the intricacies which constituted this tumultuous case. In these intricacies there lay a key.

"The sun and heat never go away."

The convict's feet buried themselves within the depths of the mud, leaving a footprint without form. He climbed and walked over the stones which comprised a rigorous ascent. He pushed on and sought the horizon, and this caused his back to ache. It was almost as if he was climbing up to the sky, a determination to reach up to god and pray forgiveness for the vile murders he had committed.
 He realised that he was leaving obvious marks which would lead him to get arrested again. The valley extended far beyond this point, and it was inevitable that he'd eventually get caught. The population of the valley progressively increased as he delved deeper into its chore. The word must have got around that a convict was on the loose, so people would surely attempt to contact the officer that was chasing him. The convict noticed that a vast sprawl of wildlife lay beside the path. Could he leave the path and live here for a few days? He could live here and kill a few birds for food, and when the hunt for him would eventually subside he could surface out into the enormous valley again and escape. This courageous derision had both its advantages and disadvantages: by keeping out of the path he would avoid all attention and his footprints would disappear, but if they led to the direction of the wildlife it would cause everyone to think he was there, and he'd be trapped and cocooned into a small shell without possibility of escape - thus resulting in his arrest and imprisonment. Not only that, but the sheer size of these woods might cause him to get lost and he'd struggle to get out into the path again. Ignoring all these detractions the convict plunged into the woods, collapsing onto the ground which was a relief after the strenuous walking he had carried out. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

"The path is dusty yet muddy."

The horizon kept expanding for the officer, and he appeared to be approximating towards the killer. Each step forward was a step closer to obtaining the key to all these converging intricacies.

"Over the hill lies yet another hill."

The dilapidated house was made of rotting pieces of wood which were falling apart. The small boy ran back into the house with a stolen radio - another item for his already varied selection of stolen goods. He hadn't been fed all day, so he clenched his fingers to the bottom of the garden ground to dig out some mud. He put the substance into his mouth and ate it; this was the substitute for other luxurious meals.
He dreaded the return of his father. His father would usually go out binge-drinking, and would consequently proceed to return home to beat him up. He was a violent man; he had already killed his own wife, but hadn't been arrested for this unforgivable atrocity. The boy's mother would usually provide solace for him; she would sing lullabies to him, reassure his strengths and would bring hope to a life which was in a wretched, maimed state. His father had killed her through a brutal crack on the skull, and no trace of her was ever seen again. Since his mother's death, the need for 'solace' was replaced by committing crimes that confronted a system he saw as futile and obsolete. He hated society. It was a society which seemed to be specifically designed for people like his father, a society which hadn't condemned his father to a deserved death, a society where the rich thrived in a state of euphoria and the poor suffered miserably. He could take out all this on others; he could murder like his own villainous father, but could exert his violent outlet towards those that deserved to die: the bourgeois.
These thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the presence of his best friend Jonathan sprinting towards his direction. He carried a brand new ball that glinted with the overwhelming sunlight
"Is that your ball?" He stopped for a moment before asking Jonathan "how did you get it?"
"I stole it."
"Can I play with it?"
"No, I don't want it to get damaged."
"Give it here now!"
"No!"
He could no longer take it anymore and punched Jonathan with all his powers on the face, causing him to succumb onto the ground in pain, extracting a stream of blood out of his nose. Jonathan lay on the ground for a substantial amount of time, covering his hands on the flowing blood. Jonathan finally got up and retaliated against him by thumping him on the stomach. This caused him to hunch his back and to cover the spot he had been hit on with his hands. He threw himself over onto Jonathan with all his might and they both staggered onto the ground, each on top of one another. They both alternated positions on who was on top and bottom, but the relentless punching and suffering remained the same. Jonathan's hands were now over his eyes, and he felt the contact of a piece of wood beside his opponent who was veiled from his view. He picked the piece of wood up and, without any conscious self-awareness of what he was doing, took it and slammed it onto Jonathan's face. After doing this there was an enraged scream from Jonathan, who had retrieved his hands off his face.
At last obtaining his vision, he saw blood oozing and splattering out of Jonathan's eyes. The stick he had hit him with had a nail, and he had unwillingly dug it within the depths of his eyes. Jonathan wailed and cried out in a flurry of emotion. He stepped back from the atrocity he had just committed and sat down on the ground, looking at Jonathan wallowing in the pain of the mutilated eye. What could he do now? He would be in trouble if he was discovered for Jonathan's splattered retina.
He went to the home's kitchen and got out a knife. He went back to the garden to Jonathan whose persistent yelling had not gone away. He took the knife and engrafted it into Jonathan's heart. The volume of Jonathan's screaming increased to an extreme degree before abruptly subsiding. Jonathan was now dead. Now he would have to think of a way of disposing the corpse before the arrival of his father. He had not killed the bourgeois has intended, he had killed his best friend. Perhaps he would repeat these murders, forever taking the life out of others with a trace of sorrow for killing someone of his own ilk.
He enclosed himself around Jonathan, picked him up and walked onto the dusty road that led to the lake. Despite it not being a very crowded village, he would have to attempt to remain less conspicuous. There was a 30 minute walk to the lake, and he straddled Jonathan with all his strengths as the presence of the unforgivable sun pervaded upon him, swirling the remorse within him. The sun ignited the incessant and pervading feeling of remorse as he had come to the realisation that he was re-enacting the crimes his own father had committed; he had killed someone he had cherished and loved. He had killed his best friend while his father had killed his own wife. Amidst the sun that ignited an unforgivable remorse, feelings of a quench for death interspersed amongst all these deviant, clashing illogical aspects. He would have to fight the remorse-inducing sun to confront and embrace his demons which revelled in the macabre. Jonathan's weight heightened all these delirious, contradictory thoughts.
To his advantage, by the time he had reached the lake no-one had noticed the dead corpse he had dragged along the path. This lake sunk down to a deep depth, so no-one would notice the appearance of a dead 12-year-old inside it. With all his strength he lifted Jonathan up and threw him down to the water, his face the last part of the body to disappear from view, a reminder of the impending atrocities he would subsequently commit.
This was a perfect crime, as he had successfully disposed the corpse. All this prompted an unlimited feeling of euphoria, a euphoria that caused him to run towards the sun. It was a euphoria that confronted the sun which embraced remorse, it was a euphoria that now relished in seeing everyone killed - both the bourgeois and working-class. He confronted the sun in a determination to kill each single person which the sun's ray of light provided illumination for.
His relentless running got him home with a breathless, burn-out energy. He reached the threshold of his house until he discovered the appearance of his father waiting for him. His corpulent body held together the hateful attitude displayed on his face. His father breathed in and out in a rapid acceleration.
"Where have you been?" his father demanded contemptuously.
"I just went out for a walk," he replied.
"Nonsense. What's all that blood by the entrance?"
"I cut myself."
"You cut yourself?" His voice increased by alarming degrees as he snapped out, "what trouble have you been causing now?"
His father covered his own hands on the surface of his throat, lifted him and, as he held him, pushed him onto the wall. As he asphyxiated, an assortment of thoughts bombarded his mind, but these soon vanished as his father's hand retrieved itself from his neck. He instantly fell to the ground, but failed to recover his breath as he received a succession of unrelenting kicks on the stomach. As his father stopped the kicks, he crawled over the fractured ceramics constituting the floor, choking out blood in agony. Over these sufferings his father yelled out "faggot" again and again. He closed his eyes to savour a darkness which might transport him into a new realm. He opened his eyes to find the same pieces of wood that made up the wall, a timely reminder of where he was. He stood up and faced his father whose aggressive expression remained intact on his face. His father paced forward and hit him on the face. This caused him to fall onto the ground and to fade out into darkness. He submerged himself into darkness, the sombre realm he had yearned for when closing his eyes. He had fallen unconscious.

"Time don't matter when you're here."

The officer found that people are a rarity in the desolate valley. During the relentless walking across the path he had yet to come across a person, but this consolidated fact was soon altered with the appearance of a young man - possibly in his twenties - who sat by the side of the path, and who rather curiously had his head arched upwards, observing the blue sky. He wasn't the convict, but revealed a striking similarity with him; he looked like he could have been the convict's brother. He had a distinctive facial expression marked on his face when the officer revealed his presence; it was as if he was engrossed in an unmitigated happiness in being shrouded by solitude. The officer stopped walking and looked into the man's eyes which revealed a trace of misanthropy deeply-rooted in his vision.
"Have you seen a man walking along here?" the officer asked.
"No. If anyone wants to know anything about the valley, you go to Max."
The officer was quite befuddled by this ambiguous statement and inquired "how will he help? This has nothing to do with the valley itself, it's a criminal case. A man is on the loose, and he has killed four people and might kill more. He is a convict. Surely you must have seen him walking along here. I don't see how Max - or whoever this person is - would know about the convict's whereabouts. Above all else, that is now way to speak to an officer."
This anonymous person replied with "Max knows everything about the valley. He is, as far as everyone is concerned, psychic. He lives in that big house over the hill."
"But you surely must have seen the convict."
"I haven't. Now please leave me as I miss the peace and quiet." tt

"That is no way to speak to a policeman - an officer. I ought to arrest you for lack of co-operation."

The man's expression remained the same on his face, and he stared at the officer as he took out a cigarette. They both looked at each other's eyes without uttering a single word, with the cloud of smoke emerging out of the man's mouth separating them, marking the distinction between each other's status. The officer kept the same disapproving features that were tinged with anger. The man continued to inhale the cigarette smoke, and his expression of contempt had now grimaced into indifference. Their incessant staring game ended as the officer turned around to return to the path, moving onto the direction of Max, a person who he had no idea of what he could be like or what he could offer. He noticed the big house that loomed in the distance. Could this be the skeleton key to all these 'converging intricacies'? These intricacies were a lock that must be opened in order to capture the convict. Max perhaps offered all this.

"I could feel him getting nearer."

 The convict awoke from an unconscious darkness, a darkness which acted as an instant transformation from one realm to another; it was a brutal hit that brought him out of an era that suggested an answer about his present-self. His dreams recapitulated his childhood with a meticulously correct precision. He would relive his childhood again and again, recommitting the crimes which would act as a springboard for the murders he'd commit during waking life. Whatever realm or era the convict would jump to, he'd always remain nameless - he would remain as a non-entity who wasn't worthy of a name. His dreams weren't free-associative abstractions, they were memories which would reappear in the exact same form to haunt him. The sheer amount of trees in the wood comforted him, offering a protection that would conceal him from the outer dangers in the rest of the valley. The trees would let his past and unconscious flourish as the burning sun hindered his view simultaneously.
The convict noticed that the bushes rustled, catching his sight. They moved incessantly, suggesting that a figure must be causing this movement. After these movements he saw a vast overgrowth of brown hair expanding out of one of the plants. There were a couple of striking blue eyes hidden amidst the plants observing him, keeping an eye on his presence. Could this be the end of his exhilarating escape? Could the decision of hiding in the wildlife lead to his downfall? Could this human, on the other hand, offer some sort of salvation? The mysterious eyes, sheltered and camouflaged by the overgrowing plantation, intently protruded and invigilated him.
The convict felt alarmed. "Who's there?" he demanded.
As he finished saying this, the mysterious and enigmatic eyes retreated and disappeared from view, retrieving the vast expanse of hair in the process. This human - in all likelihood female - appeared to be intimidated by his presence. In the process of this, he himself felt alerted and intimidated. He got up and took out his knife, and exposed it to this threat by pointing it towards the direction of the plants and this peculiar human. "Come out!" The convict threateningly yelled, "come out or I'll stab you!"
He held the knife directly towards the plants, and the vision of them remained intact in his eyes. As the sweat poured over his face, he heard a female voice yelling out "don't, don't! No, don't!
A fragile woman, with a dishevelled appearance, came out of an enormous tree. She had striking blue eyes that stuck out, overshadowing the inferior but still sheer mesmerising features of the rest of her body. Her brown, unwashed hair branched out towards all directions. Her clothes were torn rags that enhanced a set of breasts that were so enormous that they set out to outdo with the restrictive confinements of the shirt. She held her arms together in a posture that revealed an unprecedented shyness. As her overgrowing hair dangled over her eyes, she kept wailing "don't! Don't! Don't!"
Her wailing persisted as the convict kept pointing the knife towards her direction. He withdrew it and positioned it in his pocket. He slumped down onto the ground, leaning against a minutely-sized elm. As he lied down, he looked straight up to this rough-looking young lady and calmly said "ok, I won't."
They both looked at each other. The convict was far more calm but still sceptical of this woman. The woman was on the edge and alarmingly nervous, as this man had disrupted the peace and quiet she was wallowing in. He had caused chaos in her home. A staring game between each other ensued before the woman shyly turned her eyes away.
"I didn't know anyone would be here," the convict announced. "I thought I was free, I thought I'd escaped."
"I thought I was free, too," the woman softly uttered, intervening the convict's speech. "No-one comes to the woods in this valley. I... I..." The woman stuttered in a nervous acceleration as she nervously struggled to articulate herself.
"You what?" The convict intervened. "You're lucky I haven't stabbed you yet." The convict got up, walked towards the woman, got his knife out and raised it towards the woman's throat, suggesting that he was about to slit it. "But perhaps I should kill you."
The woman succumbed to the ground, tears pouring out of her eyes as she yelled "Don't! Don't! Don't!"
The convict's knife remained in the air, and a grin formed itself on his face before laconically muttering "you're a nervous wreck!" The woman curled up in a protective position, ensconced from the danger of the convict's knife. She groaned, crying out in an inexorable fury and desperation.
The convict walked around in circles, observing the woman. "Do you live here? You must do! You look like a wreck!"
The woman got up from her cocooned position, wiped her tears and reduced the exasperated wailing and groaning. This was eventually halted all together before she shyly retorted "yes, yes. I live here."
"That's rather unusual to say the least. Here," he said, lifting her up. "I won't harm you." The woman got her arms around him without knowing what to do and sobbed desperately, tears excessively pouring out. "There, there," the convict comforted and reasserted.
The woman got out from his arms and squatted on the floor, surrounded by a vast amount of leaves. She finally stopped crying all together before she spoke out, maintaining her gaze on the elm the convict had once leaned on. "I live here in this valley - it is a desolate valley. Perhaps that's what's so wonderful about it. You're one of the few people I've seen in the two years I've been here. I don't feel like I'm human; I don't belong in society. I could never create friendships; I could never communicate with others; I could never find my feet. Urban life is so compressed, so hectic. Everyone scorned me - I don't know why. Wherever I went to, whatever I searched for - I would always get pushed aside and left with nothing. But the forms of salvation for me were the walks in woods, parks and the countryside. Going into these places, you lose your sense of time. You enter a new realm where there's no beginning, middle or end; it's just one continuous present - it's the ecstatic truth. There are no people in these places, either. So I figured that I should seek out the most remote, distant place so that I could live in it. I wanted to lose my sense of time and to live inside the ecstatic truth for the rest of my life. To this day I have no idea of what time it is, what day or even year it is."
The convict moved his knife cyclically, digesting this ragged woman's account. The bird's singing intermingled with all these details.
"My outlet," he said, "is violence. It used to be for a purpose, but now I just kill with no real intention."
"What was the original intention," the woman inquired.
"The bourgeois. Also, malicious people that happened to be poor - like my father. I, too, have always felt out of place in society. My outlet has always been violence. I've just escaped from prison, and I have entered this valley. I'm escaping death, and it is this valley which offers some sort of hope. This valley is never-ending - I'm being chased."
The woman walked over to sit down next to the convict. As she positioned herself on the ground, her fringe fell over and covered her face. The convict got his hand and pulled her hair over back to its original position, revealing a face which showed a strong uncertainty about an unknown motive buried deep within under her skin. "I like your face," the convict uttered. Continuing with, "you're a very strong character."
The woman got up once more and moved away from the elm. As she walked around closer to the proximity of the convict, she kept her back towards him, facing the bushes she had once hid in. While she remained in this position, she responded "so are you. Perhaps that's why we are here... That's why we are in this desolate valley. We can't function anywhere else."
The convict got up from his squatting position and walked over towards her. Once more he touched her hair, moving it towards all the possible directions it could go towards. She turned around towards his direction and observed the features on his face which were unremarkable, nameless and indistinguishable; it was the face of a non-entity. Yet these very features were his endearing and inherently contradictory distinctive power. The convict stared at the woman's bright blue eyes. He kissed her. He retrieved his mouth from hers, and they both withstood from any movement as they once more observed each other. The woman this time enacted the movement by kissing him on the lips, engrossed in an ecstatic glory. The convict pursued this act by getting his tongue out, keeping the sped-up momentum of the kissing. The convict got his whole body over the woman, covering his arms over her arms, breaking off with the restrictive confinements of the woman's rags, revealing the erected breasts which brought themselves into view. The convict lovingly caressed them as the kissing pervaded above all else. Gradually, everything was stripped down to its core elements as the woman brought out her whole luscious, naked body out. Her rotten trousers fell down to the ground as the convict's erected penis broke out of the restriction of the underwear, displayed in full view for the woman to see. The convict kept kissing the woman, as she delicately dropped herself to the ground. The convict followed suit, and viewed the woman's facial features prior to commencing the sexual intercourse. The features revealed everything he was trying to escape to. The convict inserted his erected penis into the woman's cunt. Her pubis mingled with the convict's as the penis methodically moved back and forth in a vigorous motion. Each time his penis moved in deeper into her cunt, she cried out in a squeal of pleasure. The penis eventually ejaculated into the depths of her cunt. The woman looked over to the convict in awe, her cunt preserving the substance of his soul.

"I was waiting by the door."

The officer pressed on with the arduous walk, sweat dropping off his chin. The path began to shrink down, the trees becoming smaller in both amount and size. He now looked forward to the prospect of meeting Max. As he delved deeper into the path, he noticed another one which diverged towards an unknown direction. This newer path went towards a new direction which didn't go towards Max's home, but to a new passage altogether. Bushes and wildlife outgrew towards all directions, barely leaving any room for him to move. It looked like no-one had walked along here in years. He reached the end of the path as he, to his astonishment, came across an enormous pond. The pond stretched out metres and metres, with trees and several paths circling around it.
The officer sat down in the small space that separated the trees from the pond. He took out his mobile phone and dialled his wife's number, observing the serene and tranquil beauty of the pond at the same time.
"Jo, are you there?"
"Yes," his wife answered. "How is the case going?"
"Not very well. Things are looking up, though. I'm about to meet a person called Max. He might have all the answers."
"I miss you, love," she said, her voice muffled as some wind blew over the phone.
"I miss you too. I miss you while being in this valley, especially. This valley enhances and heightens solitude. Whenever one comes here, you feel as lonely as hell. This land is dead; it is empty, desolate. You walk on and on feeling like you're about to get something, but when you're on the brink of getting it - it's gone, it's vanished. All I hope is that I catch this convict, so that I can get out of this hell barricaded by a fervid wildlife."
"Oh, honey..."
The phone cut off, as it ran out of battery. The conversation with his wife was abruptly ended. He admired the pond once more before getting up and setting off towards the opposite direction. He would have to enter the chaotic path once more, and he would have to re-enter the 'hell' he had described to his wife, but he repressed all these thoughts by the prospect of visiting Max, whose home lied over the hill.

"Waiting and loneliness are synonymous."

The convict and the woman lied over the grass and the assortment of plantation while looking directly into each other's eyes. The woman had now developed an inner-strength which confronted her shyness and rendered her as more courageous. She kept looking at the convict's eyes without a trace of intimidation.
As she continued her staring, she said "we've got to get out of here." She withdrew her gaze from the convict, got up, walked towards the tree and kept her back to him.
"But... But... What do you mean?" the convict replied, perplexed. "This is paradise for us - this is our shell that protects us from the rest of the world. We can't leave!"
"I haven't been out of here for five years, but I must leave now. We must confront everything that threatened us before! We must fight for our place in the world!"
The convict evaded the woman's gaze. By complete contrast to the interaction prior to their intercourse, it was he who was being intimidated by her. She was now playing the dominant role.
"We have always been outsiders," she continued, "and now it's time to prove ourselves to others, to command everything that we couldn't master before."
The convict kept toying around with his knife, his head curved forward onto the ground. "The ultimate marriage between violence and sex?"
"Perhaps," she answered. "In any case, we can't stay here forever. It's being a mistake from my part to remain here. Now that I've met you my shyness has disappeared. If we stayed, we wouldn't accomplish anything. We would be the same as everyone else - those people that rot away in their comfort and their warm homes - but on a different level. If we remain here, we would merely be satisfying our ego. We would be cows in a field."
The convict got up and walked to the woman, kissing her on the lips. "You're beautiful and bright. I want to go out and pursue this marriage of violence and sex. Let's leave these woods and let's leave this valley."
The woman this time kissed the convict on the lips, a vital move forward that displayed an arduous passion. They both held hands and walked forward, departing the valley.

"I finally got a knock on the door."

The house overlooked the valley, a vast sprawl of lakes and woods interwoven by paths. The officer arched his head upwards to find a man with white beard and cowboy hat taking care to observe him from behind a window. The man looked like the stereotype of a quintessentially American cowboy. This man, the officer realised, was Max. He walked up the stairs and knocked on the door.
"Come in, officer," the mysterious man welcomed as he opened the door.
"Thanks. Did you know I was coming?"
"Yes," Max answered. "Sit down."
"For how long have you lived in this valley?"
"All my life. I've never left here, you know. Presently, though, this land is dead."
"What do you mean by that?" the officer inquired.
"No-one comes here no more. All you can hope for is a little violence or sex to bring it back to life."
The officer did not acknowledge this statement as it seemed to be completely irrelevant and random. He kept his eye on a painting of a horse, and maintained his attention on what Max said.
"When people enter this valley, they are changed," the enigmatic man said. "They become more alert and sharper in their senses. I can see that you have changed, officer."
"I've been told that you're psychic."
"Perhaps, but that's a bit too vague a description for who I am and what my role is. I am the valley; I feel what the valley feels; I am the trees; I am the pond you stepped on a moment ago."
"I can't deny that all this is very interesting, Max, but I'm after a convict who is on the loose, and he is my priority right now. If you are this valley, then you can surely give me an indication of where I can find him."
"This valley is a great shelter for him, but he won't stay here very long. He will leave this place eventually."
"You're still evading my question!" the officer yelled out in a nervous desperation and frustration.
"I'm making it easier for you. Now, if you don't mind, officer, I'm going to attend some business of mine. I may hum some of Bartok's Concerto for Orchestra, too."
The officer covered his hands over his face in the realisation that the case was not going anywhere, despite the assistance of a psychic. He got up from the chair and walked away from the house.

"When I opened the door I saw this man with a worn, rugged face. He looked like he'd gone through hell. His face displayed his thoughts: a constant battle. He had gone through hell, he had gone through the desolate valley.
'Come in, officer,' I told him.
This man didn't know much, and I wasn't going to let him know anymore. This was a way I could keep him going through this 'constant battle'.
'Thanks. Did you know I was coming?' he asked.
'Yes,' I answered. 'Sit down,' I told him.
'For how long have you lived in this valley?' he asked, with a tired expression on his face.
'All my life. I've never left here, you know. Presently, though, this land is dead.'
His look of tiredness pervaded once more before asking 'what do you mean by that?'
'No-one comes here no more.' I remembered the convict's irreverent statement of attempting to get the ultimate marriage of sex and violence, so I said 'all you can hope for is a little violence or sex to bring it back to life.'
He didn't acknowledge what I said. I continued with 'when people enter this valley, they are changed. They become more alert and sharper in their senses. I can see that you have changed, officer.'
He once more did not acknowledge what I said and went on with 'I've been told that you're psychic.'
This assertion is, of course, inaccurate. I ain't no psychic, I am the valley. I don't know nothing of what goes on outside of it, but I do know about everything that goes on inside of it. So I said 'perhaps, but that's a bit too vague a description for who I am and what my role is. I am the valley; I feel what the valley feels; I am the trees; I am the pond you stepped on a moment ago.'
I wasn't going to let him know no more. I was going to keep the 'constant battle' going on in the inside of his head.
'I can't deny that all this is very interesting, Max, but I'm after a convict who is on the loose, and he is my priority right now. If you are this valley, then you can surely give me an indication of where I can find him.'
The constant battle wasn't going to end just yet.
'This valley is a great shelter for him, but he won't stay here for very long. He will leave this place eventually.'
He burst out in anger with 'you're still evading my question!'
'I'm making it easier for you. Now, if you don't mind, officer, I'm going to attend some business of mine. I may hum some of Bartok's Concerto for Orchestra, too.' I remember hearing that piece coming out of his head when he first started chasing the convict quite a while ago.
He lost all hope and covered his face with his hands. He left my house without saying goodbye. I saw him walking away in the path that leads from my house to the valley. It was a walk of agony and incessant, inquisitive anger."

The convict gripped the woman's hands. They ran in a rapid velocity, stepping over the putrid combination of stones and mud. They maintained their gaze forward, as they kept approximating towards the ethereal vision of blue that was visible from afar. This particular path kept going up and down - ascending and descending in a repetitive, cyclical motion. They didn't say a word, and neither did their feet tire from the arduous movements. The path was surrounded by trees at the sides; it was a narrow path, constrained to a small space. They kept their mouths shut, allowing the surroundings speak for themselves. There were no words to be said.
The path now broadened, and they saw a plain with a small hut by the side. They stopped running, observing the new scenario. Now words were necessary. They let go of each other's hands, and the woman sat aside and looked up to the convict.
"What shall we do know?" she asked.
"Keep going, I guess," he answered.
"That's suicidal. We've got to think of something that will get us out of here quick."
They stopped talking, and they looked at the large 4x4 car in front of them. "We could steal the car..."
"How?"
The convict, with all his strengths, knocked the hut's door down. He took out a whole batch of keys, and he then methodically tried every single one on the car until the door eventually opened. The woman got into the car, and she once more looked onwards. This time the velocity was far more rapid, the car swarming over the plain and onto the road that led out of the valley.

"Movements ahead. If you move too far ahead, you are out of the valley. When you're out of the valley, I don't know nothing of you no more. That's all I started sensing: movements ahead. Pretty soon it'd be out of my reach, and I would lose control of everything."

The officer felt that the case wasn't going anywhere; he felt his confidence wane. This Max appeared to be too vague, and he could find no indication that could lead him to capturing the convict. His phone rang, and as he answered it he heard "the convict has been sighted in a car that's leaving the valley."
The officer immediately turned the phone off, and ran to his car that was parked close by. Things weren't looking so bleak after all. He started the engine, and he plunged towards the road leading out of the valley.

"I could feel the convict and the woman getting further and further away. They were getting so far away that they were getting out of my grip. I still had control of the officer, but he was also getting away from me.
When I lose control of something, I can only speculate but I can never reach a concrete conclusion. When things get out of my grip I must clench my hands and contemplate. I can only contemplate about this valley and nothing more. I wish I could stretch out further away, but I can't. Each time I try broadening my horizons I am confounded by restrictions which push me back. I wish I could describe what will happen to the convict and whether the officer will catch him, but I can't. I can only describe what happens in this valley. I never leave it. I was born here and I'll die here. Anything that leaves this place don't concern me at all."

February-May, 2009