Summary: Every night when he closed his eyes he lived another live, a wild and free life that he yearns to live for ever…
Author note: I know that my English is more than bad with all those typos and grammar errors so I apologize for what you would find. But the story is good (my friend told me… and I believe them). So read and review please… no matter if your comment is good or bad.
Typical declaration: I don't own any of the characters, story, and series of Tarzan. Edgar Rice Burroughs and WB created them. I'm not selling, or making any kind of profit off of this story I've written. No infringement is intended. This is solely for my own enjoyment and the enjoyment of others. (At last that is what I hope).
The harmonic melody overflowed through the iron's room while the well-known tunes pierced his ears. The female sweet voice intoned the lyrics.
dreams go on when I close my eyes
Every second of the night I live another life
These dreams that sleep when it's cold outside
Every moment I'm awake the further I'm away
How could a simple song describe his feelings so well. He understood the meaning of the song. Maybe it was written for him. He leaned his blond mane on the top of the seat closing his eyes as the melody vanished into his mind.
Quickly he opened it again. Like every night the green landscape, loaded with vivid colors and wild sounds, flooded his blue eyes. Slowly the brightness of his pupils was recovering its vitality washing away the sadness that usually lived inside them. A wide smile was installed on his face once again. He inhaled profusely forcing the pure and unpolluted air to fill his lungs.
He stretched his arms parallelly the ground while the breeze caressed shamelessly each part of his muscular, tan and nearly naked body. He was wearing only a loincloth.
He was fifty feet high, his legs entangled with the green bush where he was seated and the branch was dancing with the wind, but he felt secure. It was a sensation he couldn't explain. It was his place, his home. He belonged here.
Wild life distant sounds mixed with the cheerful childish laughter curled down his ears. From his position he could sight this three little devils playing on the riverside under the alert-careful gaze of their mother. His chest broadened proudly; they were his children, two auburn boys and one blond girl.
His smile grew wide while his eyes glided on their mother tempting curves. She was his mate, his lover. He sighed loudly. He loved to coil her auburn locks round his fingers, to smell her natural fragrance telling him she was ready for him just with a simple touch. His body reacted while his tongue licked his lower lip remembering the sensation of her smooth and soft skin under his hands. She was an endless source of pleasure where he never got tired of drinking. "Jane…" he whispered. How can such little name create so many feelings inside him?
That wasn't a perfect live, but it was very close to what he always wanted.
"Mr. Clayton" a feminine voice whispered. He tossed nervously on his seat. "Mr. Clayton." She insisted and reluctantly he opened his eyes. The metallic walls of the plane had replaced the beautiful green grove. He puffed angrily. "We had arrived sir…" He found the stewardess's smile a grotesque forced grimace.
"Thanks." He muttered but his face showed that he was lying. How could he ever thank this frustrating feeling? Frustration was all he was able to feel, frustration and irritation. Once again he woke up into this cold, distant and empty civilized world.
He made himself comfortable on the seat of the jet that transported him to New York City. On the wooden desk rested the paper he should sign. He looked at it. It wasn't his pleasure to go back to Greystoke Industries. "I have to thank you appropriately for that Kathleen…" he hissed. There was not way to avoid the formal procedure. But he didn't touch the paper.
All he wanted was to return to England, to his refuge. It was near ten years that he didn't see the American's sky. "I really hope that the funeral has ended before I arrive." He thought loud.
He had hardly exchanged some words with his aunt Kathleen, his father young sister, which forced him to return.
Tiredly he looked through the window. The machine had landed on the JFK international airport. 'I want to run away' but he walked to the front door. The people's noise warned him about the press stalking outside. 'It's logic. The vultures are never far from the cadavers…' His uncle was a famous cadaver right now. His demise was a powerful magnet for those kinds of people. His surprising and inexplicable death attracted them as the light to insects. 'Ok.' He stepped ahead, 'if you face the vultures once and for all, you will be able to run ways from here sooner.'
Song: This Dream performed by Heart. (Hearing this beautiful song this story came into my mind... I hope you like it. Just tell me what you think.)
Jane's chocolate eyes gazed at her distressed man while her fingers caressed his powerful torso trying to comfort him. He was tense breathing nervously. "This nightmare again…" she didn't need to ask his face showed clearly his concern. "Don't worry, I'm here..." She whispered playing with the curls of his chest. She couldn't help but worried every time she saw him that way.
"Hold me tight." He implored and she slipped her arms around his waist pulling both closer.
"I'm here, with you." She said squeezing him tight while she spread a line of sensual hot kisses along his neck then she moved to his jaw.
He sighed loudly. All he needed was the contact with her flesh, her heat, her lips on his skin, all of her. Anxious he searched her mouth and drunk desperately trying to erase the disturbing sensation inside his heart. "I love you" he stated openly.
"I love you too…" she replied nibbling his lower lip. He blinked hearing the declaration of her unconditional love, "You are Tarzan, my first and last man, the father of my children…" She couldn't finish, he caught her words into his mouth. His fretful hands traveled down her back. She was all he needed.
The grating sound of the alarm-clock broke the harmonic silence and the body he was hugging disappeared like a fog among his arms. "No! Please…" but no one paid attention to his plead. He woke up alone in the middle of the huge bed.
Frustratingly he shot his fists against the mattress as every morning. If only he could find some way, any way, to avoid waking up!
The sunbeams filtered through the curtains, but this wasn't the sun he longed to see. John Clayton Jr. sat up on the empty bed, afterward his fingers combed his long blond mane. His face exposed his falsely submission's expression. Annoyingly he kicked the sheets, a hot shower could clear his mind. When he left the room he already dressed his civilized-man disguise.
Slowly the young Clayton crossed the atrium enjoying the green around; it was his favorite place into the mansion. He descended the stairs and entered to the dining room where his aunt's natural smile welcomed him. "Did you sleep well?" He confirmed monosyllabically.
Using the newspaper as parapet, Kathleen's cerulean eyes watched him sat down at the table. She could read him like an open book. She drank her coffee waiting that he cooled his mood.
Oh! She remembered the exciting stories that euphorically her nephew related every morning when they had breakfast long time ago. Why those stories bothered Richard it was a mystery that she wasn't able to understand. Her older brother didn't tolerate his nephew's useless fantasies, as he used to call them. Looking back she understood John's necessity. It was his way to face his parents' death. After the tragic accident when their plain crashed into the Congolese rainforest, those stories helped him to heal. It wasn't easy for him, the boy had been lost for more than one week into the wild jungle. It was a miracle that he survived.
John had been under his grandfather's custody, but when he died, three years later, the legal custody passed to her older brother, Richard. Then john's life turned to be a nightmare and she could do nothing to stop it with her eighteen years old.
After years of therapy her little John was forced to admit that his dreams were only fairies tales. From that moment the uncle-nephew's relationship worsened until it broke completely ten years ago. To be able to escape from the yoke of his father's brother, John had had to travel to the other side of the world. His formal residence was in England but his heart belonged to the wild lands around Congo River where he spent most of the time.
But now the illogical Richard's death forced John to come back. Richard's decease was inexplicable for her. Her older brother was extremely careful, what was he doing in Brooklyn Bridge at midnight? Was it a crime or suicide? The DNA test of the frostbitten remains, the teeth mostly, confirmed that it was Richard. Had he committed suicide with the deliberate propose of forcing John to return?
Against all her fears she had to compel him to face and overcame what Richard had prepared to him. "Two detectives come this afternoon to an interview. They investigate your uncle's death.
Could you do me a favor and talk to them, I'm really busy with Greystoke legal procedure." He didn't answer. His eyes fixed on the empty cup of tea.
Suddenly the cell-phone in his jacket pocket screeched. Reluctantly he picked the device. A female voice spoke playfully on the other side of the line. He grimaced sighing. "Thank you Elizabeth but…" mentally he looked for an excuse, "this afternoon I have an interview with the detectives that investigate my uncle death, it will be impossible to me to arrive on time to your social gathering. I'm sorry." He faked a sorrowful tone. "But hardly had I finished this annoying process, I promise, I call you back."
He cut the communication under the attentive aunt's gaze. "You'll never call her back…don't you?"
His mischievous smile danced on his mouth. "But it was a white lie…auntie." How can he explain to Kathleen his fidelity to the mother of his children? It was cataloged as just a fantasy, his imagination.
A shadow crossed through his eyes when the reason of his first internment came back to his memory. During one of his fantasy a leopard had attacked him hurting his right shoulder. His three transversals bloody scratch were interpreted as a psychotic behavior for his uncle. 'You could use a knife with the single propose of attracting my attention.' He heard Richard's words coming from the past. The knife was never found but it didn't stop Richard. The incident and all the shrinks under his uncle command persuaded him to close his mouth, to lie and to keep what he lived every night just for himself.