Short Story based on a poem
Dull voices drone lethargically from the old TV set, lulling dazed vellums Into a psychedelic slumber, their lifeless bodies languorously melting into the furniture. This is the place where time dies. I didn’t know It yet, but I soon would. I watch you drag your numb limbs across the dusty white floors and slump Into the seat furthest in the corner, isolated, alone. You mumble words which spill out your mouth in a disjointed mess; wasted words for only the silence to prey upon. Your eyes, blank and empty, stare at the clock which resides on the wall.
For hours you sit there, persistent, unrelenting, watching as time turns stale and the seasons slowly blend Into one. “Lunchtime! ” A cluster of bodies traipse into the empty room. They droop into their seats and a silence permeates the air. You nibble on a sandwich, the crumbs falling softly to the table. I wonder if it’s always this still. Later, when evening falls I follow you to your room, watching as your dark, ominous presence stains the white-washed walls. You leave the door half-open, so the light still peeks out at me, creating shadows on the wall. I peer through, and
You write furiously into a small leather-bound book, but the pen snaps under the pressure, shattering into fragments. You scream Irately, and hurl the book at the wall, which lands with a dense thud on the floor. Clambering to the window, you scramble to try to open it. Locked. You cry for freedom, banging your clenched fists against the thick glass but the Then I hear it- the footsteps, heavy on the floor, approaching fast and in my direction. I slip into the opposite room, immersed in darkness, and observe the scene, watching s you thrash and Jerk your body, trying to resist the overbearing force of arms which hold you down.
But you crumble, collapsing onto the cold floor, in a disheveled heap. You wrap your frail arms around your bony chest and rock back and forth, whispering to yourself as the tears abseil down your face, stinging your raw, pink flesh. They close the door and the light fades out. I didn’t see you again for a while. The chair by the clock, left empty, alone. The little leather book had hidden itself discreetly under the wardrobe. I returned to your room to find it. As I opened the book, I was invited into the world of this enigmatic character.
Page after page had writing sprawled across it- practically incomprehensible but when deciphered, read comic material of the most humorous and intriguing kind. And for one brief moment I felt I’d been lifted out of this dreary world… The day you returned you didn’t sit on the chair by the clock. You slipped away to your room. You didn’t come out for lunch, even when the tantalizing smells of a warm roast dinner crept into your room and tickled your taste buds. I didn’t feel particularly hungry that night either.
I was still engrossed by what I’d read. I’d become unhinged in mentality, or at least more so than others believed I was. I could not understand how such a taciturn, depressed form of a man had produced such remarkable, transcendent pieces of work. Suggest you wanted me to enter, as though you’d given me a secret admission of entry into your world. I trod lightly over to steal a glance through the opening and peeked in. The darkness hid the ugliness the room bestowed. Only the light of the moon illuminated where your body lay.
Your emaciated, pallid legs, bent off the sides of the bed. Your feeble arms splayed across the creased sheets. Your cheeks, stained from where the pain had flowed from your eyes. Something glinted in the murky moonlight, like a gaudy ruby. Pushing the door open wide, I slinked stealthily over to where you lay. The sheets were soaked crimson. I watched as red ran off the tips of your fingers and dripped in little globules, forming a pool on the floor. I looked up at your face, locked and tense, expressionless, but your mouth, creased almost into a smile.