I

I smiled as the fog-filled void, empty of all things, floated down and consumed me. I vaguely felt the needle slide out of my arm; of course everything was vague here. I can’t focus on an image that’s not blurry. I can’t hear a sound that isn’t muffled. Everything is different here.

This is my world, a world of pain, fear, drugs, and fog. I don’t have to hear my mother criticize me. I don’t have to hear my father judge me. I don’t have to be dragged to that little house of Satan and apologize to a God that doesn’t exist. I don’t have to do anything and, to me, that feeling is everything.

Nothing exists in my world. My world is empty. I don’t care if my brain chokes. I don’t care if I drain myself of feeling. The beauty of my world is indifference. It doesn’t care. It doesn’t care if you are different. It doesn’t judge, it doesn’t criticize. It just doesn’t care. Isn’t it beautiful?

I suppose everyone enters this world caring. But then I have a mother that seems to care too much about everything I do and a father that only cares about things I don’t do and then pretty soon one stops caring all together.

I remember a time when I did care about something. Third grade. Mrs. Johnson told the class about a talent competition and I knew I was going to win. I knew because no one could paint like me.

“You can’t show people that!” she yelled.

“That’s nice…” was all he had said.

“I’m through!” was my only answer.

Sometimes, I picture a world that does exist and a place where I could be happy, a place without my blood-monsters and without bloody drugs. I then here a little voice from my world, “Yeah right.”

I want to get off drugs, I want to live a world free from pain, but addiction is a chain and cuff latched to my ankle and weighing down every step I take.

Maybe I will try, yeah, maybe I will.

From now on, I’m going to stop doing the things today that wipe out the things I could do tomorrow.

I have to stay awake though. I have to stay in the world. Damn the dizziness. Damn the grayness.

I know what this tiredness means. It happened once before and it caused me a week in a hospital and eternity in psychotherapy.

I need to stay awake… maybe this is its final word. This is what I get for hiding from the real world and living in my world for so long. This is what I get for not standing up to her, not involving him. This is what I get for not telling them that love isn’t automatic just because they brought me into this world. This is what I get for tying to escape into no-world instead of running ahead and never looking back on their sorry faces. I need to stay awake!

I want to stay awake… I need to stay awake... I need… to stay… awake… I need to…

II

There are clean white walls, there are clean white sheets, there’s that clean white antiseptic smell. Yep. This is a hospital. Mom begins saying something but I phase her out.

I’m alive! I get to live. I get to be happy. All I need to do is stop shooting up.

* * *

I hate desire.

I hate being tied to this burning stake of addiction.

I hate lying here naked as my mind whips my body into a bloody frenzy craving for the fog, begging for its gray protective shroud.

I hate the sound of my screaming heart beating for its liquid dessert. I need to asphyxiate its call.

I hate how it won’t stop! That demon is mocking me. I can’t really see it, but I know it’s there. It’s there under my bed. It’s single sterile eye winks and calls me to plunge its body into a vein, demanding that I plunge my body into that land of fog.

I hate how it shows no mercy. It is going to win. Another crack of its whip and I’m through. Can I really win against a demon that has no mercy?

* * *

It didn’t win. The worst is over. I can see the sunrise. I think it’s time to move onto bigger demons.

III

Here is the green. Here is the blue. Here are the reds, yellows, oranges, and golds. Here are my colors. Here is my painting. I’m free. They did not like it but did I care?

I smile as the different shades of paint engulf me. I feel the brush in my hand; of course I am in control. Everything is controlled here.

This is my world, a world of color, paint, happiness, and life. I don’t think of the pain. I don’t let it bruise me. I hear the sounds of my patron’s praise and the happy applause of those happy critics. I can do anything, and that is everything.

Happiness exists in my world. My world is full. I don’t care if my parents hate it. I don’t care if they have no more hope or love for me. The beauty of my world is that it’s mine. It’s my life, my will, my happiness. I created it. She didn’t. He didn’t. I did.

I haven’t talked to them in months. Do I care? No. They didn’t want me to be where I am today, but I am the one who is free of drugs and I am the one that is truly glad to be alive. They brought me into this world and it is I who made it what I wanted it to be.

I’m no longer hearing her shriek, “You can’t do that?” or “Why would you?” or “How could you?” I’m no longer hearing his sigh of indifference or his omnipotent “That’s nice.” I’m no longer hearing them. Not in my world. Not in this beautiful world.
____________________________

That was just a really short narrative I wrote for English class. It's nothing special. Just some words I laid down. Tell me what you think.

Thanks,
Brandon<br /><br />Post edited by: brandonk, at: 2007/09/10 16:57

You have very good ideas, but I see they're a bit drowned in the idea of making it brief. I would like to see this drawn out into a longer story, in order to draw out all the emotion that struggled to stay alive in the fast-paced construction of the story. For example, in the first chapter, I was very engrossed in the build-up and creative description of the main character's addiction, but was disappointed when everything was cut short near the end with a sudden &quot;OK now I'm going to strive to make everything better.&quot;

You have a great story here, and your only main problem is buil-up. There's a lot of truncation and &quot;gaps&quot; that could be filled in with a lot more writing. So if you think you're up for it, you should definately try making this much longer --- perhaps even into a novel. At the end you mention ways the main character's parents had failed him --- you could use that as fodder to add to the plot and fill up literary gaps.

Hopefully you weren't offended by my criticism --- I promise you that it was intended to be only constructive. Good luck whether or not you choose to follow it.

Thanks for the critique. And I definitely wasn't offended. You have some good ideas, and one day when I have the time I'll definitely make it longer. The problem was that I only had a limited time before I had to turn it in and I was having a lot of trouble expressing the right emotions. When I finally got into that 'groove' I only had a few hours left of time to work on it.

I'm not sure if I could make it into a novel. I had a hard enough time writing that little bits. I'm really horrid at writing 1st person narratives. I'm much better with 3rd person-objective. Maybe a novella though... or a longer short story.