Chapter seven, MEMORIES
I could feel the faint pain in my ribs as I sat in my room. The flickering orange light bathing the room in a dim light. My fingers grazed over old pages, colored and faded from time. Writings I had previously worked so hard on.
It was difficult to think that I was once so comfortable to sit around and do nothing but write. I could remember the slight numbness in my fingers after writing for extended periods of time, the stiff wrists and endless pondering of stories.
Looking back I could hardly believe that I didn't publish anything to anyone.
I missed the books I would read. The inspiration to write in another's creation was something I craved. A story. Something that could ease my mind and give me new ideas. I used to use so many different words, slang used in different countries and time eras. I was told I could write people so easily but I couldn't read them. But that's not true. I just- I never knew how to react to people. I always tried to avoid others.
They'd call me antisocial, a loner, an outsider, an introvert, a hermit. Something like a wallflower. I was bizarre to people. Aloof. I didn't want to socialize, just watch. Some of my classmates in the past feared me. Afraid I would do something besides watch. Those girls called me nothing but 'the Cynic'. They didn't even know what a cynic meant. My eyes flickered over the words, drawing over the same phrase.
"While darkness draws in the flicker inside must be built up further"
The bittersweet taste of irony was left on my tongue. Light it the only real protection at night in any case in this world. Fire is crucial.
Outside I could faintly hear the odd voices speaking nonsense once more. The living shadows making their attempt to lure me out of the safety light. I suppose that's what insanity sounds like. Does everyone who ends up here experience the voices?
A part of my mind played with plans for the future as my eyelids become heavy. The words on the pages were mainly a blur, mixed together in my vision as I shut the loose leaf notebook, returning it under my bed.
The room was pleasantly warm and from under my blanket I could feel sleep closing on me. Assuming my sleeping position I felt the sweet feeling of sleep wrapped me in its embrace but as I drifted my mind wandered to the man in the other room.
Closing my front door I met the welcoming sight of my small apartment. The bookshelf stood proudly, full of books of different sizes and lengths. Novellas and essays I collected. Mainstream and underground books. Literature.
I took off my coat and set it on one of the hooks, the flannel that held itself against my shoulders still kept my body warm. Moving through the room and to the couch, plopping myself onto the soft couch. The soft light of the ceiling lamp above me shone bright enough to make me squint. The slight chill of unoccupied space from the prior six hours before was enough to make small goosebumps appear across my skin.
I draped my arm across my face, shutting my eyes I could hear the sound of the bustling city outside. The sound of cars passing, the faint sound of people's voices casting upwards. It was loud out there but here it was nothing more than murmurs.
"Say pal" the familiar voice from the radio chimed in. Static holding onto the light british accent. I had come to know this voice in my home as I have heard him for the last month or so. Maxwell is his name.
He promised me ideas for stories everyday. I just have to do one small thing. He never says what the thing is though.
There's something wrong about him though, I can sense it. People often say trust your gut and there's something off about this voice. "Maxwell" I breathed, not moving from my position. There was a crackle of static before he spoke again, "You seem out of it today pal. What's wrong?"
Analyzing me is something he has been doing since I met him. He might have been doing it before he made himself known. It made me slightly uncomfortable but something I was used to. "Nothing" was all I could say, my mind going empty once more. Absorbing the sounds around me as I laid back, breathing softly from under the weight of my arm.
"There is something wrong pal," there was a pause in the static words, "I could help you".
Help me?
I peered at the radio, raising my arm only slightly. "How so?" my voice betrayed me and my attempt to seem almost uninterested. There was a chuckle out of the static. "Anyway you want dear".
My heart leaped in my chest. "Anyway?" "anyway" his voice sounded so sure in itself. There was another pause, the purring of traffic outside almost being drowned out by the soft static noise.
"I want to get away" there was a soft laugh and suddenly everything felt different, the room grew colder, dimmer. "I can do that".