Author Games: Circle

Finals | Bartholomew Haroldson

I want to go home.

But where is home? What is home?

The creatures that stand before me don't smell like any humans I've ever met before. Their bodies are taller, their faces gaunter, and they stay hidden in the shadows of the circle so I can see nothing but the brightness of their eyes. The scent of their skin is bitter and hard, like a polished plastic or the foam nuggets Max and I used to play with. It's a good smell, in moderation, but being so close to them makes my body shiver and my nose wrinkle. They stare at me without moving, long faces staring down at my old bones.

"Why," they ask. "Why should you be the one to leave?"

I shuffle my feet in front of them, head turning to look back to where the others should be. So many humans are gone now. Their smells disappeared one by one until only a few of us remained. I wish I knew where they went. Is it better there? Is there fresh air and sunlight? There are no humans behind me, all of them have been carried away with the other beings. I am alone once again.

There is nothing in the darkness of the room for me to fix my eyes onto. Nothing I can stare at to try and hide my fear. These non-humans are not impatient, but the firmness in their voices makes me want to hide. It's like I'm a young pup tearing up favorite shoes or digging through flower gardens again— juvenile and in need of scolding.

They repeat the question again, they've repeated it so many times now and yet each time I get further and further away from an answer. "Why should you be the one to leave?"

Perhaps I never realized I was trapped, forced to stay here or else something bad would happen. Like a frighteningly serious game of 'sit, boy, stay' that I never even knew I was playing. Was this my prize? My treat for being a good boy and following the rules? These creatures were offering me my freedom but at the price of what? Why did I have to bargain for the right to feel the sunlight again? Why did I feel like I had done something wrong?

"Answer." Their voices are as dry and raspy as their smells and my discomfort finally morphs into irritation.

"I don't know," I bark, my voice echoing across the large, cold room. "I'm old. I'm fat. These humans will live lifetimes longer than I ever will. Some of them have families. Some of them have pups of their own." The creatures watch me with their hard, glittering eyes. There's recognition in their gaze, they understand me far better than the humans ever could. "I don't know why I should leave." The words strike a hollow piece of my heart and bounce off the walls until it aches. My ears droop, eyes cast down towards the ground at their feet. "I've done nothing in my life but chase birds and wait for someone who has forgotten me."

The beings are silent. Their eyes disappear for a moment or two. When they come back, they have a new demand. "Tell us what you remember," they say and the question catches me off guard.

"What I remember?" Lots of different memories pull themselves to the surface of my thoughts. Each one more vibrant than the last, but far away as if it wasn't really me that lived them.

When I close my eyes, I can picture the warm spot where the window light hit the couch and my young puppy years. So I tell them, "I can remember warm sunny days and belly scratches. I remember a box full of toys and chewed up plastic bottles."

I can picture Max's laugh and the little flower beds outside his house that I would furiously protect, even if he could never get anything to grow. I explain that feeling to them with warmth in my heart. "I remember flowers and moles and laughter."

But then come the dark memories. The days when I had never felt so alone, never felt so empty, praying for him to walk through the door once again. "I remember the cold. I remember hunger. Sometimes, I remember love. But what I remember most of all is—"