Short Stories

Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been

As others were-I have not seen

As others saw-I could not bring

My passions from a common spring-

- E. A. Poe

     I stare at my palm as the space between my fingers is filled with stars. I stare at it and think I am just a dead star. I see the iron in my blood, the calcium in my bones, the hydrogen bonds of my atoms - all the belongings that were stolen from the heart of a star billions of years ago.

These - and more - are some of my thoughts during bewildering, sleepless nights of endless autumns just outside my window. Today is but another one of those and I decided to write down a few events that occurred to me which I have carefully meditated upon the other night. The stars seem to be my only companion this moment as the moon is absent. I am writing this story not because I want to feel at ease with myself, but rather to bring comfort to others in the same situation as I, or worse. This is to you. I will tell you my story and you shall listen; and so we shall pass this terrible night together.

     I was a lonesome child, didn't like playing with the others from the neighborhood. Most of the days I remember were spent indoors. The very act of being near other children burdened me mentally. I remember one time when my mother took me to the amusement park. I wanted to try all the rides and experienced great joy while doing so. The next year, I was plagued by unexplainable fear and paranoia resulting in avoiding the rides completely.

Despite this, there were people who preferred my company, and my company alone. One of them was driven into desperation as my presence grew subconsciously stronger in him. Serin tried to convince me that everyone else hated me and that he's the only one who I could befriend. The boy was a renowned liar in the neighborhood, and I was the renown gullible, so you can understand why we got along.

I took action. Over the course of a week, I mustered the courage to discuss, in the privacy of my flat, with every child Serin spoke badly of. It was, I must agree, unfit of my character, but nevertheless, they confronted him at their first chance. As a result, the boy became more cautious around me.

     In primary school I minded my own business, studied what I had to study and again the number of friends could be counted on the fingers of my right hand. People just didn't like me. I was the teachers' pet, so to say, but once I started slacking on the tasks even they gave me a hard time. And it wasn't like I chose to stoop. I had to. Else my colleagues wouldn't leave me be.

Children this day consider one or two messages with the F word to be bullying. I lived in a different time, one where you could get into a quarrel simply for staring at someone, let alone to cause actual trouble. For many days I have returned with my face and arms bruised and rugged clothes; my excuse was the same as always: I fell on some stairs. Somehow I got away without any serious injuries. Three years after we graduated, I thought of burying the hatchet. I seemed to be the only one to think that way.

     One of my friends, whom I have known for twelve whole years, broke all contact with me. After more than eight months of not talking he told me that he had changed too much and that in the end I'd end up resenting him for such change. And just like that, I lost someone special to me. We met by chance a couple times.

His walk, his clothing, his way of talking, Vlad (my friend) conserved everything - everything except for the look on his face. The look on his face is now indescribable. Words would simply diminish the image. Words shrink things that seemed limitless when they are in my head to no more than living size when they're brought out. At best I can say that it's a mixture of surprise, doubt, sadness, angst, happiness, et cetera - motley of emotions. He gave me an opportunity to discuss with him about what happened to him, but due to my perverse nature, I refused it and chose to continue living as mere acquaintances. To this day I still ponder if I made the right choice.

     I thought things were going to take a turn for the better when I was invited at a friend's birthday party. I haven't met Alex for three years, but had you seen us talk, you would think we haven't seen each other since yesterday. A glass of whiskey, two glasses of whiskey, one of Jaggermeister and one more of a drink I haven't heard of. The cards kept flying on the table and each guest could feel the taste of victory. The clock struck midnight and we got ready for the cake. By this time, most of us were enslaved by the alcohol. I proved to be more resilient.

One of the girls approached me with a playful smile and awesomely glowing eyes. We talked about our friend in common and slowly, steadily, we ended up on a sofa, kissing each other. My heart throbs every time I think of her burning lips, her glacial palms and the way she articulated "handsome" despite her being drunk. They say you never forget your first. I can't help but agree.

Our relationship lasted only three months because she considered there was no need for her to go out with me, when we can talk though texts... To make things worse, I sometimes dream of her sending me messages when it's clear as day we stopped talking a long time ago... yet I don't seem to wake up too soon.

     Time passed. One day I returned home earlier from college. The block's front door was wide open and a group of old men were waiting outside. I went through the backdoor so I could avoid their stares. Entering the block, I saw the window right next to the stairway covered with thin white fabric. Ascending on the stairs I started seeing other older people coming down from the 4th floor. The women wore kerchiefs. Upon taking a better look, the window from that floor was also covered with the same thin fabric.

One of the block's tenants had died. He was an old Muslim who I greatly respected not for his knowledge or experience accumulated through time, but for his positive attitude. This very man's way of thinking got me through some hard times.

I barely got to the 3rd floor. A group of men were carrying a body wrapped up in a white cloth and something that looked to me like a rug. Next to them walked the neighborhood's priest. I believe they call him "imam." A man wrinkled by old age, which, strangely enough, I have yet to see smile. Always with the frowning or troubled look. Perhaps the sight of dead people dulled his senses and everything he does now is due to muscle memory. After passing by them I encountered his daughter and granddaughter. Sorrow painted their faces. Their stares felt the most uncomfortable when I greeted them. I could've said "I'm sorry for your loss"... I could've, but I didn't get the words out of my mind.

Everyone I saw that day mourned the man. I kept a straight face as if nothing happened. It was my first time ever being so close to a corpse - and even more poetically, to death.

     Of course, the last part is a lie. I previously mentioned how the old man's attitude got me through some tough times. There were series of consecutive days - dark days, when I could barely get out of my bed, let alone leave my flat. It grew stronger. I tried to commit suicide. I held the can of pesticide to my mouth, my hand was shaking. All my life rushed in front of me, even with closed eyes. It's been five years from then and I kid you not, it wasn't easy! Every time I see a man or woman who goes through with it and finishes the job, I can't help but show respect for the person.

     I don't feel welcomed in my own flat, the place where I grew up and spent so much time in. Over my bed there's a picture of me in kinder garden hanging on the wall. I can't count the sleepless nights I had due to it. The blackness seems to twist and turn the figure inside, distorting what's innocent at day into something more Mephistophelian. The surprised and pure child shifts to Non-Euclidian shapes just above my head - its smile brings only shivers and chills down my spine.

Haphazard noises visit the room and force me to take my eyes off the picture. The squeaking of a wooden chair, the sound of footsteps on the hall when every inhabitant is asleep, the white door knob that bends up and down just a few inches, as if someone can't get inside, the tapping from my room's ceiling, and all the figurines I collect seem to stare right at me. One second. The picture returns to its original state.

And so am I, day by day, when I return after my search for a place where I belong.