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Literature Text
"Eat healthy," mom always told me. "Eat healthy, because I don't want you to have a heart attack in your teen years." And I always listen to her, even after my teen years, and eat healthy by barely eating at all, and having a cup of herbal tea once in a while like she says. Because mom's always been here with me, walking where I walk, sitting where I sit, following me with her advice always handy, and I don't want to disappoint her while she's here.
But at the same time, I know she isn't-is she? I saw her dead all those years ago, I saw her lowered in the ground, her calm face looking up from the shiny black coffin, which lay on the green tarp they use at funerals, and I put a blue rose on her grave, which cut my finger, and I knew she would never be there to bandage me and kiss my cuts and scrapes.
Or did I? Because after the funeral, she joined the others who walk with me, one of the many who speak to me, and told me to make sure that cut didn't get infected, to put some Neosporin antibiotic cream on it when dad and I got home. Yes, she joined all the others I've met who eventually left, and became part of me, part of my mind; or did they, are they truly walking with me, or are they illusions?
I know, you think I'm losing it, that I'm some sort of crazy person. I'm not, it's just that when I meet someone real, when they leave either by dying like mom did or just walking away, I see them again the next hour, and then the next day and the day after that. I'm no crazy, I swear, I just know a lot of people.
Like that man I met at the bus stop corner I always stand on, who talked with me while we stood, who told me he was a shop keeper at a comic store and that I should visit sometime- "Youngsters like you are into comics, right?" he had said, with a knowing chuckle. I didn't tell him that comics scare me- their flashy effects and glossy looks make me scared that Batman's really going to come after me at night, or Hal Jordan's gonna pass by me on the street when I just happen to be wearing yellow. . . Besides, Mom says comics aren't good for me.
And there was that woman one time; we just passed by on the street and exchanged greetings, and a few hours later we met again in my apartment. And now it kind of scares me to leave someone I just met, because I know they'll come back to me a few hours later.
But it's all in my head, isn't it? They're not really there, they just look like they are, and that makes me scared, you know? That I won't be able to tell what's real and what's not after I say my so longs, farewells, and "auf Wiedersehen, adieu"s to you and you and you.
I can't separate the real people from the fake ones most of the time, and the way to tell isn't foolproof; what if it's all in my head? Mom says I should always think rationally about this, and I try, I really do, but how can I know what's real and what's not? She tells me not to take the pills, and I've always trusted her, if I take them, I'll betray her, and then she might leave me! I can't let that happen, and I don't want anyone to leave me! Not Mom, not the comic store man, not the woman from on the street. . .
And you? I can't even tell if you're real, how do I know you're not just another illusion? Why are you even talking to me, how did you get everything out of me?! No, Mom told me not to tell anyone about this except the people who follow me, the people in my mind, but which ones are the people in my mind?!
Come here! Let me see if you're real, let me touch you! No . . . let me punch you, real good in the face; you got everything out of me and now you think I'm crazy! Don't you dare lie to me, I can see it in your eyes! If I let you go you'll tell someone, and then the typewriter person will take me back to that dark place. . . get back here, so I can see just what you are!
Are you the typewriter person in disguise? Ha, you can't fool me now, I can tell that you are, your stature is the same, how did I not notice that?! I won't go back to that place again, do you here me?! I WON'T GO BACK TO THAT PLACE! I'd rather be with mom and the comic man and everyone else than back to that place, back in that room! DO YOU HEAR ME?!
Do you hear me?!
Do you hear me?
do you hear me. . .
Ah- blood, blood everywhere, or is this an illusion to? I don't know anymore, I just don't know, have I killed you, or have I killed something in my mind?! Some dark shadow of something of something of something. . .
Mom . . . mom, what do I do? Should I think rationally about this too? But there's so much blood, should I get Neosporin and a bandage? Or is this death not real; will you come follow me in a few hours time, too?
Either way . . . this is goodbye for now, isn't it?
Auf Wiedersehen, adieu, to you and you and you . . . and up in the nursery an absurd little bird is popping out to say "cuc-koo".
Cuc-koo. . .
cuc-koo. . .
cuc-koo. . .
. . .
Like I said, I'm not crazy, I'm not.
I just . . . know a lot of people.
At least, that's what mom says.
But at the same time, I know she isn't-is she? I saw her dead all those years ago, I saw her lowered in the ground, her calm face looking up from the shiny black coffin, which lay on the green tarp they use at funerals, and I put a blue rose on her grave, which cut my finger, and I knew she would never be there to bandage me and kiss my cuts and scrapes.
Or did I? Because after the funeral, she joined the others who walk with me, one of the many who speak to me, and told me to make sure that cut didn't get infected, to put some Neosporin antibiotic cream on it when dad and I got home. Yes, she joined all the others I've met who eventually left, and became part of me, part of my mind; or did they, are they truly walking with me, or are they illusions?
I know, you think I'm losing it, that I'm some sort of crazy person. I'm not, it's just that when I meet someone real, when they leave either by dying like mom did or just walking away, I see them again the next hour, and then the next day and the day after that. I'm no crazy, I swear, I just know a lot of people.
Like that man I met at the bus stop corner I always stand on, who talked with me while we stood, who told me he was a shop keeper at a comic store and that I should visit sometime- "Youngsters like you are into comics, right?" he had said, with a knowing chuckle. I didn't tell him that comics scare me- their flashy effects and glossy looks make me scared that Batman's really going to come after me at night, or Hal Jordan's gonna pass by me on the street when I just happen to be wearing yellow. . . Besides, Mom says comics aren't good for me.
And there was that woman one time; we just passed by on the street and exchanged greetings, and a few hours later we met again in my apartment. And now it kind of scares me to leave someone I just met, because I know they'll come back to me a few hours later.
But it's all in my head, isn't it? They're not really there, they just look like they are, and that makes me scared, you know? That I won't be able to tell what's real and what's not after I say my so longs, farewells, and "auf Wiedersehen, adieu"s to you and you and you.
I can't separate the real people from the fake ones most of the time, and the way to tell isn't foolproof; what if it's all in my head? Mom says I should always think rationally about this, and I try, I really do, but how can I know what's real and what's not? She tells me not to take the pills, and I've always trusted her, if I take them, I'll betray her, and then she might leave me! I can't let that happen, and I don't want anyone to leave me! Not Mom, not the comic store man, not the woman from on the street. . .
And you? I can't even tell if you're real, how do I know you're not just another illusion? Why are you even talking to me, how did you get everything out of me?! No, Mom told me not to tell anyone about this except the people who follow me, the people in my mind, but which ones are the people in my mind?!
Come here! Let me see if you're real, let me touch you! No . . . let me punch you, real good in the face; you got everything out of me and now you think I'm crazy! Don't you dare lie to me, I can see it in your eyes! If I let you go you'll tell someone, and then the typewriter person will take me back to that dark place. . . get back here, so I can see just what you are!
Are you the typewriter person in disguise? Ha, you can't fool me now, I can tell that you are, your stature is the same, how did I not notice that?! I won't go back to that place again, do you here me?! I WON'T GO BACK TO THAT PLACE! I'd rather be with mom and the comic man and everyone else than back to that place, back in that room! DO YOU HEAR ME?!
Do you hear me?!
Do you hear me?
do you hear me. . .
Ah- blood, blood everywhere, or is this an illusion to? I don't know anymore, I just don't know, have I killed you, or have I killed something in my mind?! Some dark shadow of something of something of something. . .
Mom . . . mom, what do I do? Should I think rationally about this too? But there's so much blood, should I get Neosporin and a bandage? Or is this death not real; will you come follow me in a few hours time, too?
Either way . . . this is goodbye for now, isn't it?
Auf Wiedersehen, adieu, to you and you and you . . . and up in the nursery an absurd little bird is popping out to say "cuc-koo".
Cuc-koo. . .
cuc-koo. . .
cuc-koo. . .
. . .
Like I said, I'm not crazy, I'm not.
I just . . . know a lot of people.
At least, that's what mom says.
This is different than my usual fare. Kind of like Bloody Night, I guess, with that darker feel.
I write many genres of writing; this is a bit more experimental than normal, but I try to delve into all of them.
Comment, please. I need constructive criticism.
I write many genres of writing; this is a bit more experimental than normal, but I try to delve into all of them.
Comment, please. I need constructive criticism.
Comments3
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Took a while but I finally read it.
Here are my thoughts: I quite enjoyed this little story and it's not the kind of thing I normally read (accept in an ethics or psychology class). You pulled me in with your language and you repeated the theme of "Seeing people who aren't around" just the right number of times. I do have two little gripes though.
1) the feel of the story was shattered when I stumbled over the words "I can't even distinguish who's the people in my mind and who's not!" my recommendation is instead of "Who's the people in my mind" I'd try "Who's in my mind" I at least would have understood the context
2) I think the coco clock was a little out of place. If you'd have introduced it earlier it would have made more scene to me.
Few sorry for y long winded-ness. I enjoyed the piece and hope my criticism is constructive not destructive.
Here are my thoughts: I quite enjoyed this little story and it's not the kind of thing I normally read (accept in an ethics or psychology class). You pulled me in with your language and you repeated the theme of "Seeing people who aren't around" just the right number of times. I do have two little gripes though.
1) the feel of the story was shattered when I stumbled over the words "I can't even distinguish who's the people in my mind and who's not!" my recommendation is instead of "Who's the people in my mind" I'd try "Who's in my mind" I at least would have understood the context
2) I think the coco clock was a little out of place. If you'd have introduced it earlier it would have made more scene to me.
Few sorry for y long winded-ness. I enjoyed the piece and hope my criticism is constructive not destructive.