Seeing the Light

A Story by Alan Prichards

A short allegory for unrequited love

Seeing the Light

The door shut with a solid click. It was the sound of the hammer of a gun pressed against one’s head being pulled back into firing position. The man settled into his creaking chair with a slump, leaning forward until his forehead rested solemnly against the edge of his black desk. He had neglected to turn on his light. Nothing illuminated the man’s unmade bed, nor his scattered books, nor his dusty papers. The grey walls were black in the dimness.

“Unrequited feelings are a prison,” the man said to the walls. “Go hold someone else. I don't want to be here.”

The man’s eyes adjusted to the dim light seeping through his window blinds. The grey walls became grey again. The man sighed. He liked how it felt to sigh. He did it again. Sigh.

The man sprung up, his chair scraping harshly against his wood flooring. He paced to one wall, then the other. He tried to lay one palm against it, but pulled back at the last moment. He paced across the room to his bed, falling onto it with a soft thump.

The man flicked on his bedside lamp, filling the room with amber light. The walls glowed, as if they would be warm to the touch. They looked as if they would not recoil from the man’s touch.

“My walls,” he murmured. “Always here for me…”

The man trembled. Do not look at the walls. Do not do it. Enjoy your lie. He closed his eyes for a moment. He enjoyed his fantasy: the dream of welcoming walls, transforming the prison into a home.

Without opening his eyes, the man reached over and switched off the lamp. Reopening his eyes to see the grey walls, he felt ashamed. He should not have lied to himself. The walls were the same slate grey as ever. They had not changed. Only the lighting had.

The man stood and strode across the room to the window. He opened the blinds with a shrieking clatter, allowing the watery, white light of a clouded sun to stream through the clear glass panes. The walls turned the harmless white of bleached bones. He leaned against the sill with a confident smile, his back to the sky.

“We don’t have to agree with this,” he told the walls, gesturing about himself. “I can just pretend that you don’t hold me. We can get past this.”

The sun outside his window emerged from behind the clouds. The room became bright with its light, revealing its true color: a pale yellow.

“Damn it!” he pleaded. “Why can’t you just let me go?”

He closed the blinds once more, returning the walls to icy greyness. His ears wrung as if after a gunshot.