Once upon a time, I used to write. Not blog posts but fiction. Short stories. And then one day, probably around the time I began writing my thesis, I stopped writing fiction. My writing became academic in nature, focused on specific purposes – graduating, publishing, achieving. I miss those days of writing fiction every once in a while. But maybe every once in a while, I’ll post a snippet. Something to keep my hand in the game. Dialogue. A scene. Eh, we’ll see. [Notice:strong language ahead.]
He lay on his back in the grass, the blades pricking his skin. Her dog crawled all over him, lapping at his face. He could feel her approaching, could feel her hesitate as she neared him.
“Do you know what eternity feels like?” he asked her.
She sat down next to him, carefully curling herself so that none of her skin touched the grass.
“No, I don’t,” she answered.
“It feels fucking horrible. And every eternity makes me want to just end it, make everything go black.”
“But if it’s every eternity, then it ends, right? It’s not eternal.”
She didn’t get it. No one got it, and it’s partially why he had to scare them.
“I brought a knife to my face. I tried to cut myself, but I couldn’t. Because I guess even though eternity is the absolute worst thing, your brain or something in you still wants you to live. How fucked up is that?”
“Wanting to live is fucked up?”
He ignored her and played with the dog, his eyes narrowing as the dog stopped to search his face. The dog licked his nose, and he licked her back.
“See that? People think dogs are dirty. But I’m an animal. I’m dirty.”
“Well, technically, we’re all animals.”
“Nope. Not true. Some of us are much more animal than others.”
She hugged her knees and turned away from him, and he knew she was finished. No one could listen for long, not even people he paid to listen.
“You know what it’s like?”
“Eternity. It’s like waiting in a fucking doctor’s office when you’re sick. And it’s cold, and you feel like shit, and sometimes you shake, and no one fucking cares. They’re there to take your money, which they always do first, and then they make you wait. And you start playing games with yourself. Maybe by the time the little hand gets to the three, you’ll go in. Except it doesn’t happen, so you make something else up. And of course you don’t have a book with you. A book would help pass the time. It would take your mind off the waiting, but in this kind of waiting, you just sit there, miserable, waiting for something you have no control over.”
His voice broke. “And you just want to feel better.”
She reached across the grass and touched his arm, and he gripped her hand.
He hadn’t slept in days. He thought it was about eight days, but at this point, he had no way of knowing. Day turned into night turned into day, and he walked the streets or rode his bike through the light and the dark, only pausing to ask for something to drink, like now. He mapped the neighborhood according to friends who would still speak to him, bright spots on a map, but even those were dimming.
She was bright now, but he could feel her light flicker. Each time he said something harsh or something he knew she didn’t like, her light dimmed, and even though he knew he could control that, he couldn’t stop it. He was a god. He saw parts of people they had no clue existed.
“Your light’s gone. You’re not real.” She took her hand from his.
“What do you mean I’m not real? I’m sitting here, talking to you. Doesn’t get any more real.”
“But you’re not real real. Your light’s gone.”
He avoided her eyes, knowing what he’d see. She was scared of him, and he hated her for it.
“I’m Satan. But Satan’s not bad. I’m Satan, and all Satan is is a dude who wanted to be something. A dude who knew he was really good. And that makes him bad. And nobody gets that.”