So my youngest brother sent me this amazing short story he wrote. Kind of out of the blue. He's nearly ten years younger than me, and he's about to start his first year of undergraduate. The story started another conversation. So far we've been talking about films, our family (a little) and also about growing up. I asked him if he wanted to join me for a conversation and he agreed. The story he wrote is pretty amazing so I'm going to include the whole thing here as a treat. He had been reading the book Anatomy of Injustice which is worth checking out:
When you first get in you find yourself counting the hours.
One, six, twelve, twenty-four:
Twenty-four hours in one day. All by yourself. Not so bad. Boring. At least you can hide in your memories. You think about her face, and the soft sound of her voice reminding you that you were there, you were alive, you were a person. If you could only go back. If only you could hold her in your arms again. Pretty soon you realize that hours don't mean what they did on the outside, so you count the days.
One, three, five, seven:
Seven days in a week. That makes 168 hours. Jesus, what did you even eat the day before? Can you remember? There was bread, you remember that. And corn, maybe. Reminds you of summer as a teenager, where days lost their significance. Just names after all. That's all they were. That was good though. This is bad. Or maybe not. Maybe it's unhealthy to keep track. You're right here after all. Counting time doesn't speed it up.
These sterile walls seems to shrink around you with each day. Or maybe you’re getting bigger. Pretty soon you'll bust out. Haha. It's good to keep a sense of humor in times like these. You read that somewhere.
Recreation time: You pace in a different gray room with the same gray walls. Count your steps. Turn off your thoughts. Anything to keep you from thinking about her face. You can remember her. Thank god. Guilt. Her image brings you guilt. Part of you wants to forget. You know somewhere out there she is alone too, thinking about you. But for how long? 25 more years? No. Not a chance. Someone else will come along and she'll lust for empathy, human contact, understanding. She'll forget you just as you're starting to forget her. And why not? Guilt comes with jealousy. You're so alone. You're so lonely. You never liked yourself very much and now here you are.
God you hate these walls.
One, two, three, four:
Four weeks in a month. 31 days. 744 hours. This is a fraction. You’re already starting to split and this is only a fraction. There's no mirrors in here. It's hard to remember what you look like sometimes. Vague reflections on a window pane. Are you disappearing? Maybe you don't even exist? You remember hearing somewhere that after spending enough time alone you start to hallucinate. That's fine though, you could use a friend. Haha.
It's only been a month. You never really were a people person anyway. A loner. Eyes down. Don't make a noise. Shuffle. You kept to yourself, mostly. Until, of course, you met her. The day you met her is the day you realized you were alive. She was everything, really. She gave life meaning. Love gave life meaning. People gave life meaning. They took away your meaning. Two eyes. Two blue eyes. Not gray. Blue eyes. Beautiful blue eyes. They looked right at you, in you, saw you for who you are. Who are you? You can't remember. Not gray. Not gray. Not gray. How are you any different than these walls? You’re starting to feel gray. Shake that. Only one month. One month. Food doesn't taste like much. Cardboard. Sometimes you hear groans through the walls beside you. Or at least you think you do. Someone else? This silence is so fucking loud sometimes it gets hard to hear anything at all. How can nothing be so loud? Maybe we're all made of nothing deep down.
One, four, eight, twelve:
Twelve months in a year. 365 days. 8760 hours. She never even existed. You don't exist. You never existed together. You are nothing. She had two eyes. Two gray eyes. And a flat gray body.
There are two colors in your head. Black on gray. Gray on black. Nothing. Nothing means anything. Day. One day. One continuous, never ending day. This is hell. This is eternity.
Sometimes the ghost through the wall talks with you.
“Are you real?” You ask it.
“Yes….or no. I don’t know anymore. How can I know? Are you real?” The ghost asks back.
“I must be. I am alive after all. So I must be. I am alive, aren’t I?” You respond. But there is no response. Just silence. Maybe you’re already dead. Maybe you’re a ghost like him, caught between life and death. You’re not alive. This isn’t living. You’re dead. Either that or you’re dying. You want to believe that you existed. It’s getting hard. There’s nothing left to hold onto. Even your memories are locked away. Locked inside you. They’re all lies. The ghost was right. You don’t exist. You’re already dead.
Hours, days, months, years:
Time. More time. Time on top of time. You know what has to be done. You have to end the never ending. You can’t kill what’s already dead. There is nothing holding you back now. There’s a ghost in your mind. End it. You have to end it. You have to end her. Whatever she was. She was you and you were her and together you were one. Without her you are less than nothing. End this. This is all you can remember.
Blood pours out and down. So you were alive.
You’re so afraid.
If you could only see into those two eyes one more time. Two blue eyes. Not grey. Blue. Not grey. Not like the ghost. Those eyes were real and they told you that you were real too, just like them.
Please god bring me back to those two blue eyes.