What’s that?
‘Probably nothing,’ I said to myself as I move back to my corner in the dark. In the farawy part of this pitch-black, another rodent scratched the beautifully textured wall of brick, a nature’s work to marvel. I envy those rats – although gross, they have the freedom to warp through this prison of cold and moss, one with a convict accused of no crime. That convict, though, have little strength to resist, so I did nothing but sit in the corner, with no pen no paper.
Was punching, hard. Wall of brick, break through, time of day. Found a door, need a shot, break.
While it felt better after letting the bane infiltrate through my veins, I still couldn’t make sense out of my surroundings. It’s okay, though, everything is. I had my shot. And so did I mumbled, “It’s okay,” to a person. No idea who she was; couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t feel. I had an affair with euphoria for quite a while now, and when she was late I would be mad. Now that it was about to greet me, a masculine hand lifted the sitting me, the other slammed itself to my temple. It hurt, but I got to meet euphoria, which was nice. Pissed, my dad put me back to the prison of cold.
Of course, nobody understands me. Isn’t that why I’m here?
There was a bench, but I never sat on it, just because I never did. In the party, euphoria was always waiting on the corner, so did I everyday in the prison of cold. There was supposed to be a lot of people, happy, joyful, grand. Now it was just me – perhaps I was too early? I’ll wait, then.
The gray of day and the routine nothingness pushed my patience, so for once I moved from my spot just to wander around, seeing no point in trying to escape. There was wooden crates, mostly a feast for the bugs. It wasn’t good for my lungs to move such an aged storage, but in faint hope of finding an interesting something, I keep looking, until I found a book. A blank notebook, to be exact. So I bit my thumb and started writing in red.
Someone opened the door to find me, not the book.
It was mom, doing her usual stuff: bringing meals, tried to make conversation. Oh how much do I want to tell her that I failed her, that I knew what I had done and its consequences. I wanted her just to leave the despicable me and care more for those with a future, at least. But no, even without saying I know she wouldn’t listen. I was unworthy of uttering a word in front of such a person, and so again she left hearing nothing. The meal? I care less. Most of the time I just stared at it, wondering whether it was for me. It was, right?
Was it midnight? I don’t know, no sunlight prevails in reaching this prison of cold. The notebook was hidden in a cupboard half my height, and when I tried to take the notebook back it broke, sending papers and cards flying around like dandelions. Among them was pictures of him: of him running a race, of him holding a trophy, of him and his family. There was him when he was in primary school, and secondary school, all of these pictures were his life in an album. He whom I knew more than anyone else, where did he go?
Although I needed to bite my forefinger, writing was fun. It wasn’t even clear what I was writing – apparently the notebook papers doesn’t work with blood – yet there was this burning.. instinct.. in me that is stimulated, and I just let it flow through my finger. The description, the narration, the point of view, the characters, everything just flowed naturally to the book, as if I had done it for millions of million times. The plot, the choice of words, the foreshadowing, everything was excitement and literature until the notebook just suddenly ended. Only then did I realize that strength was leaving my body, and the impulses started kicking in, clouding the rational me. It was the time of day. I needed to meet euphoria.
I need a book. I need a shot. I need book. My shot. Euphoria. Book. Shot. Mom.
Mom. Mom. Mom.
The beautiful soul opened the door, and like the beast I had been, I punced through her, eyes bulging out scanning the place for the purple stuff with a needle. Was mom okay? No, the shot first. Open was every cupboard before me, yet it was nowhere to be found. Only then did I find, and open notebook with a pen, thus I picked them and started writing. And writing. And writing.
For once euphoria didn’t matter. For once the shot didn’t bother me. For once I could grab the masculine hand and threw it aside. The book was all I cared about. Someone shouted and punched me. Someone pulled me from behind and pushed me to the ground. The book was all I cared about. I just had to keep writing. I just had to, no matter where, no matter what.
What went wrong?
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