ѕnιppeтѕ & ѕnaтcнeѕ { мy wrιтιng тнread }

[videlicet]

{ I look around, and all I see are fragments of text; a snippet of dialogue here, a snatch of description there. My writing seems to be incapable of forming a coherent whole. All I ever seem to do is dance around, write whatever seizes me at the moment, then let it drift away as I leap to the next subject. And, so I find myself in possession of hundreds of story beginnings, plots that came to nothing, sections of dialogue, and drabbles. They fill the darkest corners of my drawers, litter countless word documents, and sprawl across notebook pages; the chaos of my disordered mind. And, it is now my mission to gather up these snippets & snatches, and bring them into the light, regardless of their age, incoherence, or ineloquency. Who knows, maybe one of them will start a spark, or feed a fire, and I'll find myself with the passion to continue where I left off.

{ I don't have very many rules, but the ones I do put in place I would very much like to be adhered to.
{ First and foremost, I'd like to ask you not to plagerise any of my work (though I don't see why you'd want to in the first place). It is an offence that is punishable by law, and, if you read the red header above this forum -also by CS. If I see that any of my writing has been copied, I will not hesitate to contact a moderator.
{ Secondly, I absolutely adore critique. Seriously, I will be forever indebted to you if you offer it. As well, feel free to be as harsh as you wish. No need to fear that you will hurt my feelings. But, what I won't stand for is pointless bashing. For example, "omg i hate this so much!!11!" is not critique. You are perfectly free to hate my writing as much as you wish (I hate most of it, actually), but don't post things like that without offering a reason as to why you hate it, and/or how I can improve on it.
{ Lastly, I am always open for writing prompts/story requests. Feel free to PM me a prompt/request whenever you'd like. But, I would like to point out that I won't always take them, for whatever reason, and it has absolutely nothing to do with you, and definitely isn't your fault! I write for fun, and if something isn't enjoyable to write about, then why bother?
That's all, and thank you for reading.

{ I'll get this sorted out soon.

[videlicet]

Written: November 24, 2011
As the man raised the instrument to his shoulder, bow poised at the ready, the onlookers felt a sense of mounting excitement. But for what, they knew not. A slant of moonlight spilled into the room, a splash of liquid silver. The scene became otherworldly, everything super-defined, bathed in the moon's glow.

The violinist touched the bow to the violin, and a clear, clean note rang out. It was like the first chirp of a bird, welcoming the spring after a harsh winter, the first ray of sunlight to illuminate the day. He drew it across, and the onlookers held their breath. He was truly a master of his art, his bow danced across the instrument, fingers flitting across the strings like a sparrow's wings. His head was bowed in concentration, framed by dark brown hair. His eyes were closed, an expression of utmost solemnity on his face. He was standing at the head of the small, featureless room, garbed in a high-collared coat, long brown pants. Tall and thin, the violinist took on a new gravity in the moonlit room.

Later on, the onlookers, when asked, would describe the scene in a great many ways. One spoke of it as, "Standing at the edge of a cliff, drafts of air blowing in your face, pushing you off balance. Then, you fall, arms spread to your sides. But, no fear enters your heart, just elation, pure, unclouded joy." Another, described it as, "The space between dreams and reality, the magical world we have all touched at least once, caught between dreaming and waking." But the one who caught it best, and in the fewest words, said only, "It was like flying."

The violinist never seemed to tire, only pausing to lift the bow, bringing it back to the frog, and up again to the tip. After a while, the onlookers experienced somethig spectacular. The air seemed to solidify, either that, or they were frozen. Images were drawn up out of nowhere, first misty, as if clouded by a fog, but clearing with every stroke of the bow, every note that rang out. The past, future, and present surrounded them, spinning, ever-changing. And, as they looked at the violinist, the onlookers realized the truth.

This was Time.

[videlicet]

[videlicet]

Darkness blanketed the street, all-encompassing. It was the thickest sort of darkness, the kind brought only by the middle of the night, the darkness in which wild things roam, the time when monsters escape the confines of your imagination, to stalk the streets.

The girl sat on a street corner, legs hugged against her chest. There was no sound, the blackness was stifling. She drew in a breath. It was ragged, sharp with pain. Her head raised, and her mouth opened, though, of course, none saw this, not in this darkness.

"Where are you?" she murmured into the night, "I have come, as you said... And I-"

"I am here," came a voice, cutting off whatever she was going to say next. It was deep and guttural, a wild voice, untamed and primal. "Open your eyes." it instructed.

She answered, confused, voice frightened. "They are open,"

A laugh boomed out of the dark, a harsh, sharp bark. "No, ignorant child, truly open them." When nothing was forthcoming, it continued. "Here,close your eyes, I will assist you."

The ragged girl shut them, as the monster had instructed. She felt a drop of wetness slide down her cheek, falling onto the ground with a soft, 'plop,'. She let out a small, melancholy sigh, nearly inaudible. There was no going back now, not after the promise she'd made... And, besides, what was there to go back to? Her hand ran over the gritty ground, the uneven cement, trampled by so many feet. The girl lay her palm flat against it, feeling it's warmth, comforting. In front of her was a chasm, a chasm she was about to leap into, from which she would never return. It's depths were fathomless, the bottom unknowable, the fall, intangible.

"Having misgivings?" The voice rumbled again, startling her out of her revevoire, her mourning for the world she was about to lose. "It is too late now," it said, voice softer, kinder. "We must go now, for the dark is receding."

And, in a heartbeat, she was gone.

When she awoke, the first thing she noticed was the lightness. Where she had before felt so heavy, so burdened, she felt nothing... just freedom. This feeling, so unexpected, caused her to laugh out loud, a joyful sound as one she had not heard for a very long time. And then she opened her eyes.

The desolation was complete, destruction utter and indefinable. It was a world of broken things. Houses were reduced to rubble, cars to ash. Buildings had toppled, the world was a haze of dust. The girl took a deep breath, inhaling it all.

Finally, a world where she could fit in. A broken thing, among other broken things. One of many, a piece to a whole. A smile tugged on the corners of her mouth, growing larger and larger, until it spread across her entire face. She laughed again, a happy sound, joyous, elated.

The girl felt as if she had come home.

[videlicet]

"I will protect you," Strength emanated from those four words, so simple, yet so powerful. An unbreakable promise. "Always. Anywhere you look, I'll be there to protect you. By your side, forever."

"Promise?" She'd asked, voice small and tentative.

"Promise," came the response. "I promise."

"You lied," she said quietly, looking out of the small window, out at the grey sky beyond. Raindrops gently pattered against it, a sound that usually comforted her. But not today. No, not today. "You said you'd always be there... to protect me..." She placed her hand against the cool glass, then pulled it off, leaving an imprint. Nothing would be okay anymore... ever. The girl slid out of the chair by the window, sitting on the floor, head on her knees. Yesterday, she had attended her sister's funeral. She had been hit by a car, crossing the street on the way to work.

She traced a swirling pattern in the carpet with a fingertip, crying quietly. Those words, uttered so long ago, rang in her head again. Memories flitted through her mind, elusive and beautiful.

[center]A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, casting flickering shadows on the walls of the living room. She'd been seated on the couch, eating a gingerbread man. She bit it's head off first, so that it wouldn't able to feel the pain as she ate the rest of it. A habit taught to her by her sister. "When's Santa coming?" she'd asked, spewing crumbs.

"Santa-" began her older brother, a malicious grin on his face. He sat across from her, lounging on the couch, hood over his face.

"When you get into bed, Cassandra, and fall asleep!" interjected her sister, shooting him a nasty look. "So, c'mon, let's go upstairs now!" She remembered being enfolded in her arms, carried up the stairs, already slipping into sleep.

She had been 5 then. It had been ten years since then... "Why did you go?" Cassandra muttered into her knees, voice broken. Only now, when she'd lost it all, she fully came to appreciate her sister. "You were more of a mother to me than Mom," she said to no one, raising her head. Her brown eyes were misted, cheeks glittering as the reading lamp caught the light of her tears. And it was true, that statement. Cassandra's mom had always been busy. Always, 'Not now, Cassy!', or, 'Later!'. There had never been a later. But her sister had always found time for her. She'd helped her with homework, defended her, she'd even gone to speak with a teacher once...

A watery smile spread across Cassandra's face as she recalled that day.

[videlicet]

Who are we to define fact and fiction? Who are we to say what is right, and what is wrong? Our species is a young one, very young, but we have the audacity to label the world. Pah. We don't understand a fragment of it, of the place we call our home. We seek to define the indefinable, seek to order chaos. It is impossible. But we do it anyways... Because of our all-consuming ignorance.
You don't believe me, do you? Of course not. One of our other fatal flaws, our voluntarily blindness, our pride. Us humans are the dominant species, superior to all others on Earth. We are the ones with conscious intelligence, the only ones with the right to label the world. I see that frown, the nearly imperceptible furrowing of the brow. My truths are beginning to take root. My truths -even I am susceptible. I call them truths, but what do I know? I am only human, after all.
Let me take you on a journey. A journey of the mind, a search for truth. A quest for understanding. Because, as humans, that is what we seek. Understanding is as crucial to our survival as the air we breathe, or the water we drink.
I shall tell you what I have seen. True though I believe it to be... It could all be a dream. We believe reality is the tangible, but what if it is the other way around? What if only the intangible; that which is not there, incomphrensible, is the real fact? And all else is just fiction? But there I go again, seeking to label the word. Ordering chaos, impossible. Impossible, without further knowledge.

The day was windy, the sky a steely grey. Flat, a grey sheet stifling the world. I was sitting on a swing, rocking back and forth. The rusted chains creaked and groaned, but I paid no heed to their pain. No, I was withdrawn into contemplation, into the recluse of my mind. And that is why I did not see it coming.
With a snuffle, the creature brought me back to reality. I blinked; once, twice. Feeling returned. The wind that ruffled my hair, the feel of the swingseat underneath me, the coarseness of the rust that dusted my hands. And of course, the creature. It smelt musty, like a book, old and forgotten, on the highest shelf. Like a house that has been left to fall into disrepair, clogged with dust and age-old dirt. The feel of its muzzle, brushing my leg. Stifling a scream, I fell back, body slamming into the gravelly ground.
Frantic, I tried to scurry back, hoping to put as much distance between me and the creature as possible. Ah, another of our countless flaws. Fear of the unknown.
The creature was short and stout, with a long, thin muzzle, disproportionate to it's body. It was a dark brown, dusted with speckles of tan. It had four legs, rather bowed, short and stubby. But the claws were what caught my attention. They were short and curved, like those of a cat. There were eleven on each of the front paws, four on the back. The creature let out another snuffle, and the claws retracted. My eyes moved to it's tail, which was also peculiar. The tail was long and thin, brushing the ground. But, from it sprouted feathers. Yes, feathers. They started to appear at the tail's midway, small at first, near imperceptible protrusions from the skin. But they grew in size, on each side. It reminded me of a fan. They started off small, grew larger, then shrunk again. Most peculiar.

[videlicet]

Written: January 13, 2012

It was cold, and I was cold. Not chilly-cold, no, this was deserving of a whole new word. Bone-numbing, mind-freezing cold. A freezing that clouds your vision, and saps your strength. The kind of cold that is the common equivalent of death. I sincerely hoped this proved wrong in my case. I don't want to die. I'm too young, I want to see the world. I want to feel the wind on my face as I arrive on the summit of the highest mountains. I want to watch the aurora borealis flicker and waver through the sky, the dancing of otherworldly lights. I want to delve into the deepest seas, trek through the thickest forests. I want to see the world.

Shouts reached my ears, hazy and indistinct. I was slipping; I could feel it. Slipping, slipping, slipping... My hold loosening on the world, finger by precious finger. The shouts sounded again, closer this time. Then I was being shaken, a dark shape appearing above me. I tried to open my mouth, tried to tell them to leave me be... to let me sleep. But I couldn't. My body wouldn't respond.

I felt arms around me, lifting me off the ground. The world swayed above me, and my arms dangled. The shouts had stopped; replaced by a constant murmuring, rising and falling like the waves on the sea. I struggled to make out the words -but to no avail.

The arms around me loosened, putting me down on something soft. It slumped with my weight. A snapping noise enclosed the world in darkness. Am I blind? That was the first thought that sprung to mind, hardly coherent. But then the world started to move, and I was distracted. There was a rustling beside me... Was there a person there, watching me? The thought hardly concerned me. No, all I wanted to do was sleep. Surrender to the peaceful darkness, let it envelop me in its warm arms.

And so I closed my eyes.

[videlicet]

A chilly wind blew through the streets, scattering the garbage across the road. The occasional car passed by, bright and blaring. But, otherwise, the night was silent -or, silent as a city as large as Toronto could be. The boy lay curled against a wall, arm over his face. He turned over in an attempt to get more comfortable. It was pointless, he knew that, but he did it anyways. Old habits die hard. The boy's left hand was clenched in a fist, his right resting on the sidewalk. It was cold, autumn-cold. Gellert had never spent a winter on the streets before; and had no wish to spend this one out here. But he was resigned to the fact that he would have to. Because he was not going back there. No.

A car passed by, breaking his train of thought. Gellert cracked open an eye, shifting his arm so he could see the street beyond. Deserted. The boy bit his lip, trying not to cry.

[videlicet]

Written: January 21, 2012

(I had a strange, extremely vivid dream that urged me to write this. xD)
The drop was steep, the view resplendent. The world below was aflame, trees red, orange, yellow. The fading sunlight caught the lake below, giving it an ethereal shine. Stunning. The water was crystal clear, and at the bottom, were what looked like leaves. Autumn leaves; water on fire. It was hauntingly beautiful, serene, yet violent. The colours were lurid, everything was vivid, clear and sharp. He looked beyond. Bizarre. If he focused on one thing, a single tree, it would jump from the blur, as clear as if he were standing next to it. Arthur clenched his fists.

"Jump," She looked up at him, yellow eyes boring into his. "Jump, and retrieve a leaf. Just one. Close your eyes."

He looked at her in disbelief, mouthing the word 'jump'. Shaking his head, Arthur began to back away from the edge. "I-I can't," he said, looking at her with wide eyes.

Luxa smiled ferally up at him, displaying scintillatingly white teeth. He shuddered despite himself. "But you must," she stated matter-of-factly, her deep voice serious. "You must."

"Why? Why must I?" His tone was challenging.

Her smile became apologetic, and she flicked an ear. "I can't tell you," she answered, voice rather guilty. "Not yet."

Arthur's look of disbelief shifted to one of anger. "So you expect me to jump off a cliff to get a leaf, without even explaining why? That's..." he struggled for a word, "That's... absurd!"

"Jump. Or I will push you."

Arthur backed away from her, expression suddenly wary. He noted the muscles, sharply defined under her light pelt. The sturdy frame and large paws. Swallowing, he said, "You-you wouldn't..."

She let out a low, intimidating chuckle. "I believe I would." Luxa stepped towards him, and he stepped back. "Jump, Arthur." It was not a demand, but a statement. She knew he would obey.

Curling his already tight fists even tighter, Arthur let out a shaky breath. He moved over to the cliff-edge, feet sending a scattering of small stones over the edge. Jump, Arthur. He closed his eyes, and jumped.

The air rushed past him, cold and sharp. Strangely enough, he felt no fear. No, just a wild sense of freedom. Weightless, unburdened. No guilt, no worries. He was free. The sensation did not last, though. He hit the water with a crash, feeling as if he had rammed into a solid wall. Arthur let out a gasp, inhaling only water. It was cold, freezing, in fact. It seeped in through his clothes, seeking to immobilize his limbs. Clenching his teeth, Arthur struggled for the bottom. A leaf. He needed to get a leaf. Arms stretched in front of him, he searched for the bottom. Nothing but water. Beginning to feel light-headed, Arthur became more frantic. His lungs screamed for air, and his thoughts became less coherent. Leaf... He was looking for... A leaf? Suddenly, his fingers brushed the bottom. His right hand grabbed for a leaf. He scrunched it up in his fist, pushing up from the bottom. If his eyes had been open, he would've seen the leaves, billowing all around him as he pushed off, moving like a flame in the wind.

Head breaking the surface, Arthur let out a gasp. As air returned to his lungs, his head cleared. The shore. He needed to find the shore. Arms outstretched, the man began to paddle towards the bank, fist still clenched around a ruby-red leaf. Arthur's arms felt like lead; it seemed as if he'd run a thousand miles. The bank didn't seem to be getting any closer, and his strength was flagging at an alarming rate. Where was that lynx? He was going to kill her for making him do something as ridiculous as this...

The thought gave his strength, and, at last, Arthur reached the shore. Wading out onto the gritting sand, the man shook his head, spraying water everywhere. "Luxa!" he yelled.

[videlicet]

shad·ow
noun /ˈSHadō/ 
shadows, plural
A dark area or shape produced by a body coming between rays of light and a surface/partial or complete darkness, esp. as produced in this way

Foreword

It is my unwelcome task to inform you that the original writer of this short story (he referred to it as a memoir, but, as the events recalled within are so unbelievable, I take it that he meant it in some form of jest) is not alive to see the publication of his work.

William Cobalt was found dead in his home on the 12th of July, not yet even six months ago, by a concerned neighbor (who would rather go unnamed) who had stopped in to check on him. The cause of his death still remains unknown; there were no signs of violence, on or around his person, and the inquest provided no enlightenment. He was in the peak of his health, at 27 years of age. Law enforcement suspected poison, but every test has carried through, and as there was no result to speak of, his case was dropped.

This manuscript was found on the computer of the late William Cobalt, and bears every resemblance to the story he told his therapist he was writing. As he had expressed a strong desire for it to be made public upon its completion, I have taken the liberty to do so for him.

Thus, I dedicate this short story, entitled ‘define: shadow’ to his memory.

-Robert Buscher, M.D

The Occurrence

The sky was grey that day, I remember. Oppressed and violent, clouds with dark black underbellies, lightening slightly as eyes progressed upwards, patches of white light breaking the gloom. Pathetic fallacy in advance, I suppose. It wasn’t raining, I don’t think. Or, if it was, it happened afterwards. It isn’t important. At least, I don’t think it is –is it important? No.

Anyways, the stage was set; skies black, earth dry (I think), and silence all around. It was the sort of quiet that was louder than anything, the sort of quiet that presses in on your eardrums, twisting something uncomfortably inside of you. The sort of silence that makes you long for noise, anything, anything at all, be it the sound of a thousand roaring chainsaws, or the cacophony of a rock concert. Anything to shatter the noiseless-ness, because you can’t do it yourself, because the silence is too powerful, too painful, and it has you in its grip. It’s the sort of silence that you can’t get in the city, where, even in the dead of the night, the screech of a car on the pavement meets your ears, or the faint bleed of music from your neighbor’s apartment. No, it’s the sort that is only available when you are alone –totally, completely by yourself. Which is where I found myself on that day. Alone, in the middle of a dead cornfield.

I say ‘dead’ to mean, not empty, but truly dead. As in, the corn was still there, but it was wilted and rotten, sending up a putrid odour that had me grimacing in disgust as I wended my way through the stalks. They parted easily enough, dry and frail, snapping as I pushed them aside. The skritch of wilted plant materials against my clothes and the clomping of my sneakers against the dry earth eased the oppressive silence, but only slightly.

Sometimes, I almost forget what drew me to the graveyard of corn that day. It was that ironically insignificant. But, today I remember, which is why I’m telling this story at last (it feels nice, to get it off my chest a bit, though I’ve hardly begun). Today I recall it; the ancient, battered baseball bat, worn smooth with use, disfigured slightly, writing along the side faded almost completely. I’d abandoned it there the day before, rushing in for dinner, all thoughts but those of food banished from my mind. And, now it was my task to fetch it; chastened by my mother for my carelessness, she’d rushed me out the door, pointing to the sky, saying something about wood, rot, and rain. I don’t quite remember what. Nevertheless, there I was, drawing steadily closer to the centre of the dead cornfield, guided by the pre-snapped stalks highlighting the path I had taken the day previous.

Suddenly everything faded to silence once more, the sounds of snapping stalks and feet against dry earth halting abruptly. I had reached my destination –the centre of the cornfield. It was an interesting place, a circle of emptiness, no withered stalks of corn bent and rotting all around. That was, until you looked down, because the dirt was covered by them, a thick mat of broken stalks of corn, husks crushed by stomping feet. This was my secret place, my fort, that I had worked so hard to build, using the bat to weaken the stalks, thrusting them to the ground, and stomping them down to make a carpet of dead things. It had taken me all of two days to complete, and I remember feeling a sense of pride at my accomplishment as I surveyed the circle. Until I realized the bat was missing.

That’s when everything went strange.

I remember a brief flicker of annoyance kindling within me, but, before it had the chance to grow into a blaze, it was engulfed by another emotion entirely. My eyes had wandered from the spot the bat was supposed to be, up to the wall of dead corn. And then I saw it, my body deluged in a wave of cold terror as my mind processed what was standing (well, I say standing) right before me.
I don’t know what it was, exactly. I’ll never know what it was, and I don’t want to. All I’m sure of was that it was wrong, terribly, terribly wrong. The sort of wrong that your whole being protests against, as the mere sight of it drives something sharp and painful into your gut, making you want to scream, to cry out, do anything to be rid of it. It was something not of this world, not of any world, because no world wanted to claim it as its own.

It was, to me, a shadow in the shape of a human child, about my height. It was dark against the background of corn stalks, a semi-opaque cut-out. It raised a hand, and waved, wiggling its fingers. Briefly, I tore my eyes away, looking down at my own hand. It was still. I forced my gaze back upwards; more afraid (if that were even possible) of what would happen if I wasn’t watching it than I was of the thing itself.

A scream tore from my lips then, the only possible reaction to the hellish thing in front of me. I am dimly aware of watching dark hands raising to the sides of a shadowed head, where its ears would be, if it had them, if it could hear, if it was there and it existed, and wasn’t just a hallucination, which I prayed to God it was.

Then cold; mind-numbing, bitter, sharp, and wild, and all I saw was the shadow rushing towards me, blank and featureless and dark, and then the world tilted and then pain.

The Aftermath

I awoke the next day to the steady beep of a machine at my side, and the low thrum of quite a few more all around me. The air smelled cold, clinical, and sharp; like disinfectant and rubber gloves. White walls swam into view, but keeping my eyes open for more than a few seconds set up a deep pounding inside my skull. I closed them.

I’m not quite certain when it occurred to me that I was in the hospital –I know it wasn’t immediately, because I recall disorientation and fear rising in me like a tidal wave about to break when I first came to. It took a long time, I believe, longer than it should’ve, for me to piece it all together. After the nurse came in, short, blonde, and dumpy, with a concerned smile, drawn by the sound of the frenzied beep of the heart rate monitor at my side. Even after the dull pain in my abdomen began to heighten again, and I was sedated by a man in white scrubs.

In fact, I think it wasn’t until my mother arrived, her face white and drawn, lines visible on her forehead that I hadn’t seen the day before, that it finally dawned on me. The hospital. I remember her sitting down in a plastic chair at my side, drawing it closer to the edge of the bed with a rubbery screech. She took my hand gently, and it was warm. I feebly laced my fingers with hers, holding onto it like a lifeline.

“How are you feeling?” she’d asked (or something along those lines). Her voice was no higher than a whisper, and there were deep, dark bags under her eyes.

“What happened?” I managed to choke out, voice thick and sludgy. My throat wasn’t working properly, my mouth not obeying my commands. I couldn’t remember, at the time, anything but the panic. It veiled my thoughts, and, when I tried to dig deeper, swim past it, the heart rate monitor’s pace upped, bleating more and more frantically, adding to the pain in my head, until I was forced to drop my quest.

“You don’t remember?” my mother responded, dark eyebrows lowering over storm-grey eyes. Question to question; we were talking in circles.

I shook my head, too tired to speak.

Two days later (or was it three? I’m not quite sure; time moved strangely then) I arrived home.

For a long time, then, everyone treated me like I was made of glass -fragile and easily breakable. My parents spoke to me softly, always smiling kindly, taking every opportunity to place a hand on my back, or on my shoulder, to steady and tether me to the world. My brother hardly spoke to me, slipping out of the room like smoke when I entered. He didn’t know what to say, I think. No one did.

It took about a week for me to learn what had happened after I blacked out. It was my dad who told me, sitting me down in a chair, and leaning against the kitchen counter with weary eyes. His left hand tapped out a steady rhythm on the linoleum as he spoke.

I had been found by my brother about an hour and a half after the occurrence; he’d begun to wonder what was taking me so long –he wanted to play baseball with his buddies, and as we only had the one bat, he was stuck waiting for me to retrieve it. So he set out to find me, following the same trail of snapped stalks that I’d taken hours previous.

Apparently he’d found me laying there, still as death, a blot of red staining the white of my t-shirt (which explains the haunted look in his eyes every time he saw me). He’d sprinted back to the house, screaming at my parents, white as a sheet (my dad’s voice shook as he recalled this part) and they’d called the ambulance, rushing me to the hospital.

And the rest I knew already.

After that, my dad left his place on the counter, moving over to the fridge, back turned as he asked the question, the same one my mother had at the hospital. “You don’t remember… anything? What happened… at all?”

I remembered the terror. But, at the time, that was all. Just the soul-wrenching, body-paralyzing fear. I didn’t want to go any further, I didn’t want to discover what it was that frightened me like that, that left one, deep puncture wound in my stomach, so clean and neat that it hardly bled at all. I’d had nightmares about it, starting the day I returned home. The sight of the cornfield to my left as we rode along in the car felt like a punch to the gut, and the moment I crossed the threshold of my home, the only thought in my mind was of my bed upstairs. I lay down, and fell asleep, but, instead of providing the relief I so desperately needed, sleep only wore me further.

It was the same dream. Always the same, I remember that. The nightmare has stopped now, but it was persistent for a very, very long time. I can’t recall it with the utmost clarity anymore, but I do remember that there was a lot of running, and fear –cold, sharp, electric bolts of it. The dead cornfield played a lead role in it. Every time I was awoken before the dream finished, by my parents (and, once, my brother), leaning over me, white-faced. They told me I’d been screaming, thrashing about in my sleep.
About a month or so after the occurrence I was taken to see a therapist. We sat in a chilly, open room, and she asked me about my feelings. Sometimes she made me lay down on a floral-patterned couch, and helped me remember.

Eventually I broke through the fog of terror, and everything came rushing back, crystal-clear, as I remember it now.
It happened during one of the couch sessions; I’d been lying there, eyes shut tight, breathing fast, searching through the fear. Everything behind my eyelids was black, spots of pressure where my hands were pressed too tightly against my lids. Then there was a flash, and a sharp pain in my skull, almost as if a door had been swung violently open, bashing against my brain tissue. Memories and sensations flooded in, so vivid I felt almost as if I was there again, reliving the occurrence. Only the uncomfortable, scratchy couch and sound of rain pattering loudly on the deck outside grounded me in reality.

I think I might’ve started to cry (I have a vague, foggy memory of tears, but it could be false), and my therapist rushed over, invading my personal space and laying a comforting hand on my knee. She asked me what had happened, what I’d remembered, what I’d seen.

I told her.

Everything changed then; everyone gave me a wide berth, as if they were afraid of catching some terrible ailment I had. And, they began treating me like I was made of glass again, just as things were getting back to normal. The meetings with my therapist were upped from once a week to twice, and even she began to treat me differently.

Years passed, trickling by like sand through one’s fingers. The wound in my stomach faded to a light scar, and only twinged once in a while, instead of constantly. I passed through high school like a ghost, friendless, enemy-less, getting average grades, and blending into the shadows. My brother went to university, letting me know only as he wished me a gruff “goodbye”, enveloping me in a stiff hug. I stood by my mother as we watched him get in the car beside my dad, and drive away. (I only see him once a year now, at Christmastime. It’s always an awkward meeting.) I graduated high school, and moved out soon after. I live alone now, in a small, messy apartment. It doesn’t bother me, in the slightest.

And, I’m going to have to wrap this memoir up now, because I hear a knocking at the door. It’s probably the postman, or something, though I don’t recall having ordered anything that would need to-the-door delivery. Who knows –memory fades with age, after all.

The End