Call Out

Pablo Xavier Woodard

I can't sleep at all, when I close my eyes, they always end up opening again.

Have you ever thought of something so much to the point of desiring nothing more than to give in to the urge to enact such actions despite knowing the dire consequences? I certainly have, I've deeply contemplated the possibility of sinning many times over and every single time, the advantages outweigh the other. To commit treason, a heresy, a deed of the devil to put against God himself purely for the achievement of experience like submitting to your intrusive thoughts. Do it, disassemble the pen, inflict torment, they're barely off in terms of progression. Why ever have such flawed values wide open for any pawn of mankind to take a stab at? You see, my family is religious. I however, am not.

   We hold hands at the table and say "Amen" and we attend churches on Sundays and we most definitely love our neighbours just as we love ourselves. It doesn't equate to anything. That said, it doesn't mean I will halt in the activity of attending churches and to go against the support of my guardian and the supposed teachings of gods just because all I've disagreed with is the de facto figurehead of it all, Jesus Christ. I don't need someone to watch over me nor a figure of worship, all I need is myself. Maybe Shawn too but mainly myself.

   Murder weapon, sinful tool, experience it, no, yield it, use it.

   The round table of thoughts eerily yearned within the depths of my mind, they discussed, and they took jabs at one another within their council, akin to the motion of many lost souls repressed together as one; unclear and misshaped but nonetheless, brooding and scheming.

   I can attempt to empathise and comprehend why people would attempt to believe, to pray but the more I try, the worse it gets. It is perhaps benediction or a desire for praise and acceptance further beyond living that they yearn as when they pass the threshold of living, one would long for peace and affirmation on the other side awaiting. I am not 'they', I am 'I' and when I die I'll end up rolling in my watery grave or be cremated and stuffed inside a jar depending on whoever enacts the funeral procedures. Atheism! This line of logic is bleak and distressing but when has life ever been straightforward? We pave our own answers and educate ourselves in our curiosity like a child collecting exotic shells on the shore of a beach.

   These revelations dully came to me as I sharpened the blade against the whetstone, the tool screeched in pain to the repetitive rhythm of grinding. I wiped the sweat from my brow and held the blade up to the ceiling light, it glimmered, the powdery steel settled onto the sheets as I rested the sharpening tool on the pillow. Barely noticeable but there was now a small bump within the whetstone, caved in from the relentless clashes of steel. I could picture the same whetstone being present as far back as I could since my childhood and it hasn't changed one bit in all those years. Maybe it's because we don't often sharpen knives.

   I sneak out of my room and trudge downstairs, making sure to watch the second last step as it creaks. The kitchen was adjacent to the living room where Dad and Amber were watching the television together, they usually do not know exactly what to watch so they spend most of their time scrolling, but it appears they settled on something. Mum doesn't begin cooking for at least another hour, a self-note as I carelessly plop the whetstone onto the counter where it had belonged to previously, it's almost like nothing ever had happened.

   Back upstairs now — I want to show Shawn my efforts.

   I knocked on the wooden elm door, the planks echoed back solidly. Unlike the rest of our room, Shawn didn't have an explicit wooden sign citing his name hung up on the like the rest of the family. Mine was written in thick black markers, our parents shared a neat carving and Amber's with messy orange crayon scribbles but the thing was we all had one. Even if the idea of having a sign at your door feels cheap and inauthentic but in our household, we do it anyway; Shawn was the one exception, I'm gonna to tell him to get onto it right away. I held the knob in excitement and stood by for a welcoming "Come in" affirmation. I flung the hinge open and was met with the expected sight of Shawn eyeing a textbook in regard to his studies, something viable for his standards. This time, he wasn't taking a practice test or on the computer in search of information, but plucking away at different coloured sticky notes and plastering it all over his wall as he flipped the page of a curriculum.