so for some reason lately, i've been feeling rather creative. anything i produce is stuff but i want to create. i decided i would write a story because my hands are too shaky to draw or paint because of my medicine. i'd like to know what you guys think, cause this is based off my experiences and stuff like that and i'd love to hear some feedback on what i could change to make it better. it's obviously gonna be a lot longer and more fleshed out when it's done so keep in mind this is a work in progress. i look forward to hearing what you think, even if you hate it and think it's utter trash and i should go light myself on fire
1
Finale
“There it is, that’s where it all ended.” He motions to a small brick house, set back from the street by a distance of about one hundred yards, with a long, sloping driveway and neatly manicured hedges out front. He begins the trek up the drive. I follow, pen in hand, writing down these details in my notebook as I walk. He pauses for a second to kick at a ball, deflated, left on the lawn, before continuing to the house. He produces a key from the soil of the rightmost of a pair of potted plants flanking the dark oaken door and guides it carefully into the lock. It turns with a series of clicks, and he pushes open the door, motioning for me to follow.
The door opens into the landing, whitewashed with an oriental area rug on the floor. The panels on the walls are ornate, with the moulding protruding ever so slightly to give the room a feel of feigned elegance. In the corner, there is a coat rack. Our seldom-speaking protagonist motions putting a coat on the rack, insinuating that I should follow suit and remove my coat and hat. I politely refuse, as it is rather here. I take off my hat, however, as a sign of respect.
“I’m going to take you to where it all happened, where I have lived every day of my life, where all of my hopes and dreams perished, and my sorrows lived.” He climbs the stairs with the gait of one that has done so thousands of times before, climbing quickly and efficiently two steps at a time. Upstairs, there is a hallway, white as the landing below, with two doors on the right and one at the end of the hallway on the left. It is to this door he takes me, and carefully opens, so as not to make noise. “Mother is sleeping,” he tells me. Inside the room, there is a bed, with an end table on either side. On the table to the right is a vase, thin and black, with a single poppy inside. There is a picture of the boy, along with a stuffed bear and a curious pot, cemented shut. “In our hearts forever” is inscribed on the lid.
The bed is neatly made. Hospital corners. Perhaps military. Somebody has been taking good care of this room. The surfaces are all dusted, polished even. It looks almost as if nobody lives here. It is too clean. No clothes on the floor, no stains in the cloth, no streaks on the window. I take my notes, sketching out these quarters on paper. “How do you feel about this room?” I inquire. “What does it make you feel?” “Completion. Termination. The end.”
2
Hell
I was never received well by my peers. Most outright ignored me. After all, they barely even saw me when I was right in front of them. I didn’t attend school much, either due to illness or hospitalization. They think I’m crazy. I’m just different. That’s why I’m here. To be different. To be observed being different. To be watched. Most of the kids here are covered in scars, just like me. Their eyes bleed like mine do. Their veins cry tears at night. Here I am no different from any of them. But I am different from those who watch. Those with eyes and ears to see and hear me and noses to smell me out and many mouths to eat me alive.
I am a monster. My claws tear at my skin. I turn my weapons on my worst enemy and try to destroy him. But they always stop me before I can. They always stop me. But this time they won’t. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only sane person in here. I flop down onto the bed. Hospital corners. It’s almost time for my medicine and blood collection. I groan. I like my room here. But I hate the bars on the windows. They’re trying to keep me from throwing my enemy out. I hate him. I found a nail once, sticking out of my bedpost. They took that, too. They said I might hurt him. With a nail? I certainly couldn’t kill him. But I’d be damned if I wouldn’t try.
I already am damned. This skits-of-friends-seeya binds me like a chain. But I don’t care. Soon I’ll be free. I’ll get him soon. They can’t keep me in here forever. I can’t afford it. Nobody can. When they let me out, I’ll kill him. Yes. I’ll kill him. I want them to know I killed him. I want them to make me okay.
3
Ascension
They say that during the Isra and Mi’raj, Mohammad ascended into Heaven. So will I too. But how would they greet me if I don’t have a name? I don’t have a name. I don’t have a name. I don’t have a body. What am I? Why am I in this room? Why can’t I move? Help me. One day I’ll have a house. I can live there with all of my friends. They say they’ll make me okay if I hurt him. If I hurt me. I am him. I’ve always been him. I am everybody. I am them. I only want to be me. Help me.
4
Lucid
They tell me I’ve been here for three weeks now. I’ve been asleep for most of the time. Asleep or screaming. I’m in the hospital, they tell me. They’ve somehow managed to get my meds down. I black out a lot. I can’t remember most of what happened. I’ve forgotten why I’m here, and I don’t know when I can leave. There’s always a nurse in here with me. In this small room, with the bars on the window and the bed against the wall. And the bathroom without a lock. The room has no door, so the light from the hallway comes in at all hours. On the side table, I found a composition notebook. The black marbled type I recall writing in for my elementary school assignments. I guess I wrote in it for the past three weeks. It’s pretty incoherent except for a few passages. There are many drawings of crosses, and the number 3 written over and over. One page has the word “calvary” in the middle, and nothing else. Did I become some sort of Bible-thumper? I don’t know what’s going on anymore. Except I do. It’s kind of complicated. I don’t know what I WAS doing but I know what I AM doing.
The nurse gets up. Time for my meds.
Jesus Christ, those were like horse pills. It’s apparently time for “group” soon, whatever that means. I guess I’ll check in later, after this “group” is over.
5
Nox
So apparently, group means we have to talk about why we’re here with the other patients and set goals for treatment. I wasn’t able to participate in any groups for the past three weeks, so today was my “first” group. I couldn’t really talk about much because I don’t know why I’m here. They won’t tell me, either. It’s like they want me to start fresh. They took away my old notebook and gave me a new one. They said they’d give it back on my release. I’m in bed now. Hospital corners. They told me if I was good, I could get out soon.
