Words in the Corner

Flash Fiction

At the end, at the very end of the vast hall, she quietly takes a chair and heads to the furthest corner and to sit down. She settles between one of the shelves and a glass barrier, away from the sight of security men. She is not doing something wrong, but she just can't stand seeing them anymore. They remind her of rules, and she hates them, she hates their disrespect of privacy and their absurd requests like "You can't sit here miss" or "Please put your feet down". She doesn't need more limitations.  

She holds her pencil, opens her notebook, takes a deep breath, and closes it again. She looks up at the ceiling wondering why it has become so hard to see a blank page. Is it because it calls for words, and there are no more words in her head, no more words in her heart. 

“A writer shouldn't feel blocked, I can try and make myself inspired by anything…so let's think of something, common! common!” she says to her self. She looks at the bookshelves, and their intensity. She’s always loved libraries and bookstores, that scene of books arranged carefully above each other, beside each other, liberated her.

She tries to visualize a love story happening behind those shelves, where two lovers sneak hurriedly,  looking at each other through gaps, holding hands and dancing to the silence of the place, tiptoeing, trying to hold in their laughter, sighing.

Lame, she thinks. What a cliche!

It is not just the meaning of love that makes no sense anymore, not even the feeling, but the very word itself..the L, the O, the V and the E! The word on paper just looks ridiculous. 

She starts to write:

"She is playing with her hair, recalling the only day she was not left alone . . . ”

Again, no words! her mind is screaming.

Frustrated, she slams her notebook closed. She came to this place thinking she would get inspired! Maybe she forgot how to write. She thinks of her favorite spot in the place, Shady Abdelsalam's museum, where all the dead come back to life, including herself. She remembers his paintings, his words about living for a cause, his own library and designs, those pencil strokes covered by faded colors, and her favorite painting in the collection. She can't even remember it's name. It's that dark one with a beam of sunlight from the ceiling, lighting Akhnaton's throne. She thinks of getting up and visiting the place, to watch the painting she loves, but the thought didn't even insist or repeat itself, she is that lazy, she is stuck in that corner -- forever. 

"…he pulls his sword, fights in the darkness, surrendering to the light of hope" 

She scribbles on it and writes:

"In the corner of his mind, he found a memory buried, a memory of a memory…" 

She scribbles on that too.

Every word she writes, every single word she thinks of is meaningless. Actually meaningless was the only word that made any sense. Meaninglessness, nothingness, emptiness. And now she is panicking, not because she has to finish this and write, she started to really believe she had forgotten the words. How can all the words never mean enough, how can all these words...say nothing.

She remembers last night's fight, with herself. She cried herself to sleep as usual, and now comes her cruel self to tell her again You didn't forget…you are empty . . .YOU ARE . . . she interrupts the thought loudly and screams "NO" 

Her NO silences the place and everyone starts looking in her direction. Realizing she is surrounded by stares, she gets up and leaves before any security creature comes to her. Walking hesitatingly, she seeks a place to hide. 

To hide from people?

NO 

To hide from denial?

NO

To hide from herself?

NO

To hide from God?! How can she hide from God? Why would she? Is he looking for her? Maybe he is, maybe he started looking when she stopped looking for him. She is hiding from the confrontation.

Panting, she settles in another corner. On the floor this time, she sits. Her hands are shaking, a tear drop falls and she ignores it coldly. Let's ignore what just happened and go back to writing, she thinks. Rather she should have thought going back to not writing, going back to the blank page and the bored pencil. Her legs feels numb from sitting on the floor. 

"…and my heart feels numb from blaming it too much, for forcing it to believe"

She meditates the place and feels grateful for the silence, the silence that she can't find within herself anymore. 

"…I just need a moment of peace" she scribbles on peace.

"I just need a moment of inspiration, of truth, why don't you answer my call when the sun sets"

The sunset! how can she forget her obsession about sunsets. She gazes onto that beam of orange light getting in from the glass of the hall, touching her face directly. How did this thin line of light find her in that corner, she doesn't know. She remembers the painting of Akhnaton and the beam of sunlight. She turns a new blank page:

" And she just realized that the sun never sets, it never rises either, it's us who change positions from the light, and where am I, I am in the darkest shadow stumbling, dreaming" 

Someone approaches her. For a moment she can't differentiate, is it someone, or is it the thought of someone, it is someone, a security man. He gets closer and she looks at him with her tired eyes, her head tilts as if she's about to faint, He asks "What are you dreaming about young lady?". That's not the kind of question she was waiting for. 

"I am dreaming about waking up" she says, murmuring to herself.

He kneels down to her and says with the same quietness "You shouldn't be sitting here in this corner". 

Well then, force me to leave.