Khuno's Tears

By Jahnarr Evans

Khuno's Tears is a window into the soul of a troubled individual lost within the dark and dangerous corners of their own mind.

A lasting impact is sure to be left on any reader as they navigate their way through a story rife with imaginative prose and solemn reflection.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jahnarr Evans
• Release date: May 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798988229209

Jahnarr Evans

Born in Maryland and raised in New York, I spent nearly all my free time reading or playing video games, never truly believing that I'd one day write a book of my own. Let alone before I graduated high school. But as I enjoy writing, I yearn to gain as much of an aptitude in the world of science, as to exercise both sides of my brain and more confidently guarantee prosperity.

Book preview

Prologue

All was well, once upon a time.

That’s just an assumption though. My past feels as distant from me as Earth is from the farthest star.

Whenever I make an attempt to gaze at that brilliant light, the only image that greets my eyes is the empty void of space.

A black and gray blur, constantly shifting and shaking within my vast codex of vibrantly colored memories.

Even when I reach as far back as I can and stretch my appendages as far as I’m physically able—straining my muscles to a point beyond sore—I can’t get a solid hold on anything. Sometimes, I feel the tips of my fingers graze a cold surface, but just as I curl my digits and prepare my muscles to grip, it slips between my fingers, evading my grasp.

But I know it’s there; I can hear it screaming at me.

It calls out, yearning to be uncovered. Desperately wanting to be remembered.

I can feel its presence too.

Not as a symbol of happier times, merely a reminder of the worriless freedom I once had.

But even that’s just another assumption used to fill in the gaps. As I said, I can’t remember any of it. Though I’m sure that the vacant lot in my memory is a preferable stand-in for whatever wound that surely lies underneath.

But there’s really no use dwelling on such matters.

Because no matter how much I contemplate and ponder it, I could never get it back. It’s gone. Like a fragile cloud of dust being blown away by a fierce typhoon.

Just imagine trying to run after those bits of dust that have been blown hundreds of yards away and scattered so efficiently, so indiscriminately among the sands of the Sahara. Attempting to take back lost time is in the same realm of impossibility.

Although the fruitless endeavor of an impossible and unfulfilling task eating away at my mind might just be a more merciful fate than the cold that awaits me.

It’s Too Cold

It’s so cold outside . My hands have frozen to a point past numb.

It’s as if they aren’t even a part of my body anymore.

I swear, if they were speared through with the tip of an iron spear, I wouldn’t feel a thing.

I might even prefer it.

That would at least stop them from shaking.

God knows I can’t manage that on my own.

Despite the coverings provided by the deep pockets of my bright-red parka, they continue to shiver like the hands of a frightened child burying their head under warm sheets in the midst of a storm.

Even when I rub my numb appendages together with a determinative force, hoping to generate enough friction to warm them up even the slightest bit, all I receive for my wasted energy is a pair of reddened palms covered in flakes of dead skin hanging desperately onto damaged flesh.

It’s so cold outside. 

But it doesn’t stop.

Snow showers the earth with incredible speed and in immense quantity, battering my body with this brutally painful sensation of cold.

And the wind.

It beats down on my ears with such a deafening roar.

I suppose that’s for the best though.

The isolation I feel would be only further exacerbated if I could hear the laughter of families and friends huddling around a crackling fire whilst I die out here alone in this vast plain of snow.

So really, I’m thankful for the noise. Even if its volume often feels at odds with my own thoughts.

It’s an understatement really, to say that I may get sick out here.

A mere affliction of frostbite or hypothermia is surely the least of my worries.

Maybe I’m already sick. I would never be able to tell. Between the numbness and freezing temperatures, I already feel like I’m dying.

But there are houses everywhere. There are people everywhere.

People who surely have room to share and plenty of food to spare.

Although, despite the many options presented before me, there’s this particular one that I can practically feel call out to me.

In most ways, it’s like all the others:

Less-than-sturdy steps leading up to a petite little porch and a dark-brown wooden door locked and latched shut.

Even the grooves between the boards of wood that make up the front wall are identical to the ones that decorate every other residence.

And the doorknobs. It seemed as if each and every small piece of brass was coated in a layer of ice and held the base of a dainty little icicle.

But there was one thing that separated this house from all the others.

Just one thing that gave it that shred of individuality that so easily attracted me.

Hanging from the face of the rugged door was a cluster of leaves arranged in a circular shape, dotted with brightly colored flowers and donning a bright-red ribbon.

A wreath.

I don’t know what it is that overcomes me, but once I fill my eyes with its form, I feel this sudden sensation of belonging.

As if I’ve lived there all my life and I absolutely must return.

Well then my next course of action should be obvious from here.

Push through the mounds of snow that stand in my way and take cover under the awning that extends outward from the small home.

Then maybe they’d open the door If I just wait a little bit.

...

But it hurts so much. The cold; I can’t take it any longer.

It feels as if all my clothes—thermal boxers and all—have been outfitted with razor-sharp needles and every inch of my body is being poked and pierced and penetrated by the sharp tips.

I need to get in.

I could try knocking.

But what if they don’t hear me? The wind is so loud, it pounds against these dark-brown walls with a sound like timid thunder.

Even if I’m somehow heard, why would they open the door for a stranger?

What incentive would they have to care?

Besides, I’ve faced this kind of environment before, my desire to go inside clearly isn’t from a place of need.

It’s nothing more than a carnal impulse.

I'll be fine out here. It’s not that cold, anyway.

Then why?

Why do I stay?

Why do I stare through the window in such an overbearing manner?

It’s as if it isn’t really assistance that I seek but rather, the full attention of whoever happens to glance in my direction.

That’s probably what they’re thinking whenever they see me avert my eyes the moment one of them catches my gaze.

That must be why they look at me in such a strange way.

But it’s so unfair.

If they see me out in cold potent enough to kill, why must I inquire with them to spare me?

Shouldn’t it be clear that I do not wish to be out here?

Do they not care about what may occur as a result of such prolonged exposure?

...

Maybe they’re just not understanding. After all, if I wanted to go inside so badly, I would just knock on the door, not look through the window, right?

Yes, of course. It’d be foolish of me to let myself succumb to a mindset in which I feel that my desires must be fulfilled on the basis of entitlement.

Then why?

Why do I continue to wait here?

Help won’t come if I stand idly by, that's been made abundantly clear.

Why not do something then?

Why not tell someone how much it hurts to be out here?

The warmth is so close, I can feel it. Such a tantalizing presence.

Through boarded windows stained white with frost, I can just barely make out such beautiful images.

Images of a gentle orange glow coating the room in a dim fluorescent light and blanketing the bodies of creatures suffering from the cold in the most comforting warmth.

I swear I’ll die without it.

Then why do I make such a negligible effort? It shouldn’t be hard to request entry. A mere couple of knocks would surely be more than enough. But what of my muscles? They’ve been worn out from the cold. Now every minuscule movement that my body makes is followed by an excruciating pain; my knocks are pitiful and go completely unheard.

I’ve tried calling out too. For so long, I’ve wanted to cry out and let them know how much it hurts. But my voice has been so severely weakened.

The irritation of the cold against my lungs is too harsh for my pleas to escape. Leaving the trapped words scratching against the inside of my throat as they try desperately to claw up the length of my neck like a squirrel trying to scurry up the length of a tree.

My desperate cry for help comes out as no more than a whisper.

...

It’s not that cold outside.

I’ll wait a little longer.

But it’s been so long.

So long that I’ve been left to wander this dull world of blackened grass and dark-gray skies.

So long that I’ve walked and walked, hoping that one day I’d stumble upon the exit of this wretched maze.

Yet here I am, marching steadily to the staccato of death’s sinister melody.

And who knows when the beat will drop? Who knows when the phonograph will screech to a halt and scream that all-too-familiar scratching sound into my ear?

A disheartening but necessary reminder of life’s fragility.

Comparable, I’d say, to the dimensions of a record: barely a five-inch diameter with a thickness akin to that of a fingernail and a surface so dangerously dainty.

Merely grazing your digit against it would leave a recognizable print that prohibits its functions.

How could you not cradle such an object with a graceful delicacy?

How could you allow its brittle face to be stained with even a single scratch?

The metaphorical construct of one’s soul is just as flimsy and must be handled with the same caution and care. Lest the meager scratch you streak its