ONE BIG SUNFLOWER

Month: September, 2013

People Who Don’t Want Saving.

by retrodiction

Seconds tick by like a metronome of monotony. The white of the sun is harsh against the backdrop of black that surrounds Amy, and she wishes– more than anything– for the black to be literal, for the sun to shine a little less bright, for the contrast to not be so daunting. It seems unfair, that in the moment her life is to be so irrevocably changed, the world is simply moving on; it spins, still, on its axis without a care for her world.

 

Faintly, Amy registers the distant hum of voices– varying cadences of platitudinous uttering. But the ticks and tocks are overwhelming. They mock her, scorn her, scream out to her: wretched wastefulness! I am slipping, unstoppable, through your fingers; molten seconds disappearing into crevices of blackness. She blinks once, twice, seeing now more red and black than white. She feels the tickle of warm liquid caressing the side of  her head, down the sensitive skin of her neck. She watches the world upside down. In her predicament, stretching her fingers in time to the rhythmic ticking is all she can do– reaching out, as she best can, for something tangible to hold on to. Something aside from the black that threatens to engulf her.

 

“We’re… coming to..” — black.

 

“Open… open your eyes.” — black.

 

“It’s… going… okay?” She opens her mouth to ask — black.

 

She imagines how ridiculous she must look to the owner of that hopeful voice. Her gaping mouth, conveying with escaped breaths all she feared, all she loved and all she no longer lived for– her entire life story, encompassed in the sparse gasps of air– like a fish out of water. Imagining is tiring. She much prefers the black.

 

This time, more consciously, she registers a scream. Shrill and piercing, tapering off into a gurgle. She struggles to breathe, wondering how she could possibly be drowning on dry land. Maybe in this inverted world she swallowed a mouthful too much of air, and it’s choking her alive. Through the crack of her eyelids she sees, more silhouette than features, dishevelled hair and an immature beard looking down at her; grateful for the temporary reprieve from the glaring white that is stolen away far too soon.

 

For a moment she forgets being submerged in an imaginary ocean, forgets how to work her lungs and breathe in life; she could almost feel the peace of the black that she welcomes. But then hands, too close, too intimate for her liking are on her chest. She doesn’t understand, can’t comprehend how her own alien body is working against her. As her once-upon-a-time hero makes the incision along her throat, sticking a tube in, she watches obliviously as colour begins to seep into her world. When she feels her lungs expanding again, taking in oxygen, giving her life, Amy starts to sob. Painfully, because the tube can’t take in enough air to allow for her convulsive gasps. Desperately, because the tube doesn’t allow her to say what she hopelessly needs to get out. Mournfully, because the tube has stolen away the black.

 

The hardwood floor has never before felt as cold beneath her skin, as if freezing every pore of her being to staying grounded in this world. As Amy tilts her head further upwards, in the periphery the world is upside down, but all she takes in is the taut circle of rope, swaying in its show of contempt. And she sobs, vacantly, because the tube has robbed her of her way out of her horrific labyrinth.

 

We Could Talk In Morse Codes

by retrodiction

When I told you it was fine, I was hoping you wouldn’t believe me. When I told you that you needn’t worry about me, I never expected you to really do it. So when I stopped saying anything at all, the last thing I thought you would ever do is try to claim to know me so well.

There are no logical reasons for these lies that I have told. I’ve sown a mask to my face, that now have melted into my skin, so I can no longer tell where it ends and I begin. It’s like looking in a mirror but never really seeing, because what I’d need is a scalpel just to peel away this film that’s coated my entire being. Imagine gold, imagine greatness, imagine something special that lies beneath this plastic skin; but when I unzip my veins all that flows is a dull red. And nothing scares me more than being simply…  average.

I’ve lost several words through the course of my brief life. “Happy” was the first to go, but to be honest, I still haven’t truly felt it’s impact. “Sad”, though, was a word that’s hard to live without. So I’d stutter, with my speech impaired, trying to find a way about. I devised all sorts of cryptic ways to convey this one emotion— as if the world gave out prizes to whomever who could find the most immense ocean of ineffable puzzles in which one could drown. I lost “no,” and “help,” and “stay,” almost concurrently. I lost “hello,” and “pain,” and “family”. And then I lost “me”. So all I’ve ended up saying is “please,” and “thank you,” and “sorry”— Please look at I; thank you for looking at I; sorry you had to look at I— no one understands an impaired speech.

Later on I found out that I felt less like choking if, to I, the words didn’t have a meaning. Instead of inhaling all that salt underwater, I could keep, at the very least, my head above the surface. My lungs were lighter anchors. Now you see, a lie is ten times easier to keep afloat. I haven’t just stopped saying what I mean out of fear; I found, above all, a new life buoy.

These lies… they keep I from being simply average.

 

The Ultimate Multi-Taskers

by retrodiction

No, two things aren’t going on concurrently. Its three and four and five, fighting for the same head space. And in that claustrophobic finite space the noise is overwhelming.

Chaos, waxed lyrical, tugs at the neurones in my brain. Like an intricate dance it stretches my tendons, beautifully, it moves through my body; my arms and legs a sinuous liquid, gushing with a force I can’t control. But bodies weren’t made to take shapes of containers. It is cramp, and my limbs are bent in places that weren’t meant to be. So my bones start to grow at perpendicular angles and my inelastic bands of fibrous tissue. . . begin. . . to. . . snap.

My cells have rearranged— my hands are my feet, and my eyes are ears that can neither see nor hear— all flowing into the same head space. Every force is triggering the wrong reaction: my fists move in tandem with this whine in my chest; the ringing in my ears are harmonies to that rhythmic pounding in my head; those words tickling my vocal chords itches my heart. Direction has become an irrelevant concept because everywhere I look, the mess I see is all the same. A disarray of fetid liquid, stuck in a box, left to fester and rot. You see, tangent to my sanity is a normal that exists entirely on an imaginary plane. So in the real world, a push is no different from a pull. In the real world, no matter where I move, my position always stay the same. Air… What I need is air. And tangible space. I need warm hands to ground me. And a voice to guide me out of this box… Because my cells need to rearrange.

Each new anchor joins the rusted sunken ones in this tiny, tiny box. The ripples on the surface are negligible. Tearing through the liquid in its conquest to be buried deep; to rest at the bottom, dormant, where it’s too far down for the sunlight to reach. By the laws of nature that dictates all that shall come to pass, these foreign anchors and this box will, for certain, disintegrate.

But I doubt it would be in my time.