the current of now-1

I massage my feet, tender from the protection of shoes throughout winter. The temperature outside is warm for winter and fall but cool for summer and spring. After washing my car, a gift from the unknown, I come inside with sore feet from walking on the pocked and brutally sharp driveway. Wearing shoes while bathing a vehicle is undesirable, so I now have to face the consequences of shallow, stinging scrapes and cuts.

My problems are simple, insignificant, unfulfilling; I desire adventure and freedom with an insatiable thirst. Outside of my house, I can walk ten miles until I hit a barrier. It’s taunted me endlessly because the barrier is invisible. I am able to see the lush forest on the other side, but my hands are stopped when I lift them to touch the greenery. My body is rendered immobile even when I crash into the wall again and again and again. I am alone here, so I don’t usually stop until I bleed, break, or bruise. I wonder when I will have someone else to interact with; I mustn’t have been created to only observe how long it would take for me to shatter.

Once my feet have been attended to, I walk outside to watch the sun set. This time, however, I wear comfy tennis shoes to protect my healing feet from the lukewarm ground. The sun sets in the west, turning the sky a mix of oranges and pinks when it used to be as blue as my eyes. I go to car and clamber on the hood and use it and the windshield as a recliner to watch the sky slowly fall asleep.

When I first arrived here, my mind held only one idea: other people like me existed. Other, I try the word on my dormant tongue, “Humans,” existed. Humans like me existed; people who could walk, talk, and eat.

I had awoken in a bed with a fluffy feather comforter that was as white as snow; everything on the bed was bleached stark white. Later, I drenched the blinding color with a rainbow of paints that I had found in a warehouse near the barrier. After waking, I knew that I was alone. It was quiet. Outside, the birds did not sing, and no one spoke downstairs. I was completely and utterly alone.

At first I had tried to keep the days counted off; whenever the sun set, I would make another tally on the wall adjacent from my paint-splattered bed. I stopped when the wall had been filled with the inch-long marks.

I also know how to read. That skill is a blessing I would have gone insane without. I had searched all over my prison frantically for days and weeks when I first arrived hoping to find someone, anyone. There was no one, and that fact still stands currently. Luckily, in my searching I found many libraries; I finally collapsed in one after surrendering to my isolation. I read and read and read until tears fell from my eyes in exhaustion. I fell asleep that night surrounded by the heavy scent of literature and contained knowledge.

The sun still hasn’t disappeared behind the row of trees. Tendrils of glimmering gold grapple at the treetops desperately, not yet ready to slumber. The sight makes me smile. Watching the sun set has become a ritual for me, a calming, centering time to reflect on myself. Books help keep my mind in a fragile state of coherence; the last thing I desire is to lose myself in my seclusion. Books also remind me that I don’t have other people to speak to. I don’t even have a name for others to call me.

I bristle at the thought and rise to a sitting position. I’ve tinkered with the idea of naming myself, but it has never felt right to. I’ve always felt that I have a name, but it is blocked in my mind along with my memories of who I was before I was deposited in this giant, invisible bubble. At least, I desperately hope that there was a before. If this is all of me, I’m sure I would crumble the minute I knew; however, I hover in a state of in-between. I’m not sure of anything besides now. I huff, trying to relax. I know I should be focusing on mollifying myself with the now-fast setting sun. I want to stand on the tall oaks and reach down for one of the sun’s long golden arms and heave it back into the darkening sky. If I am awake and worrying, then it should be too.

Sadly, however, the sky becomes a cold, midnight blue as a white orb and matching, glittering dots rise from the east, chasing the sun away. I scowl and rise from the hood of my black car and go inside the house.

My stomach growls at me angrily, and I want to growl right back. Lately, my skin has been itching more than usual, and I’ve spent more time beating my fists purple against the wall. The atmosphere in my bubble carries tension like it’s the heaviest yoke upon its shoulders. I feel as though something huge is about to occur, and I will hope for a century before I think that nothing will happen in this desolate cage, but I don’t need that thought of “what if” to permeate every thought and weigh me down endlessly; however, the tension and anger that is rippling through my every action has me contentious against the thought. I want to think “what if” now.

After I eat dinner and read a couple chapters of my book about trees, I bury myself in my stiff, paint-splattered comforter. I dream of amorphous humans greeting me. They shake my hand, and I wonder how it feels to be touched.

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I never use my car. I’ve read many books about cars: sports cars, race cars, work vehicles, and regular automobiles. I have studied the engine endlessly, poking and prodding at it, but I have never started the vehicle or tried to drive it. I have no idea how to operate a car appropriately, aside from what I’ve gleaned from my books.

When I first arrived in this bubble, I saw the sleek, black vehicle, but I ran past it using my voice and feet to try and locate others until darkness fell. The night didn’t stop me, only exhaustion. I collapsed in a grassy ditch still perfunctorily shouting and hoping that someone could hear me. Unfortunately, I was still alone when I awoke but also cold and famished. Somehow, I remembered the way back to my house and scavenged for food in the cupboards where I found an infinite amount of non-perishables. My only drink, and still my only drink, was water out of the sink.

After eating I went back outside to search more effectively. The car’s existence glared at me, so I walked to the vehicle. It was unlocked, and the keys dangled in the ignition. I cranked it, but the vehicle didn’t start. The engine didn’t even turn over. I tried over and over. Nothing.

Frustrated and irate, I slammed the steering wheel, blared the horn, and kicked at the gas and brake pedals. After my fit I began to sob because, in my gut, I knew I was alone. It was a feeling that settled thickly in my soul and slowly spread outward from there.

But I am obstinate. So, I continued my search for weeks after the car incident, but I found nothing that even hinted at other people recently inhabiting my confinement. That was when I began to read the immense amount of books and knowledge my cage proffered and accepted my captivity.

At first I read only fictional stories to escape from my ugly reality. I lived in a world where I could make conversations in my head with the characters that now lived there; however, as I became more accepting of my current state, I began to read books about life. Books about food, cars, education, clothes, art, the possibilities were endless! I was ravenous for everything the novels proffered.

When I had something in reality that I could pair with what I learned through books, I tried to connect them. For example, the first time I found a book about plants, I ran outside with the guide in hand to voraciously look for the plants the book named. I always studied my deficient car when reading about vehicles and their inner workings, but I have never discovered what causes its insufficiency.

I sigh into the musty air of the library I lay in. I’m reading about electricity at the moment, and I wonder how my home has the formless power while most of the other buildings in my cage do not. I turn on my side and see the dust motes float serenely through the dim sunlight filtering through the glass doors. My heart aches because of my hope that builds with the tension I have started to feel. I want to shake someone’s hand. I wonder if their skin will be warm, or if the person will have nervous, icy hands. A defeating sigh curls me into a tight ball. I allow myself to cry in this disquieting loneliness.

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My car is warm where I recline on it. The sun sets quietly this evening. I don’t feel riled up tonight; I feel sad.

Resting beside me is a cookbook I brought from the library to make a meal that will marginally cheer me up. Although all I have are tin cans of food, there is a large array of it, ranging from canned chicken to peaches to artichoke hearts. Tonight I plan on making an unconventional stir fry from a plethora of canned vegetables.

The sun’s warmth helps the heaviness of my heart, and I walk inside my house and make the stir fry. Its warmth settles in my stomach, and I smile as I chug a mug of teeth-chattering cold water. I stretch and deposit of my clothes on the floor and fall into bed with the window thrown open.

Although I long for more, my life is simple enough to keep me pining but not unsatisfied. As long as I have more books to read and more knowledge to devour, I will be okay. That night I dream of people eating my dinner with me. They tell me I can cook well, and an odd, pleasing sensation settles in my stomach. A warmth from within.

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When I wake, my eyes are facing my wall of tally marks. The wall used to be a plain white like the bed was, but each black mark marred the paint until it was a dizzying wall of little lines. It is a testament to my isolation, now undocumented. I can’t remember how many days have passed since I stopped documenting, but the act felt empty. A house full of tally marks seemed detrimental and evidential to losing myself. I don’t want that.

I eat a breakfast of peaches and water and head to the building behind my house. I come back to my room with paint cans full of yellow, green, and turquoise.

I have a sponge as wide as my head and a paint brush to match. I lift the open can of forest green paint with both hands stabilized on the bottom. I raise it above my head and point its trajectory toward my tally marks. I let the green splatter across the black.

I furiously take the sponge and slather it across the dripping paint. It drips everywhere, on my face, clothes, and floor, but I don’t care. I need to erase my insanity.

Soon, the wall is as green as the grass covering the ground outside. I grin as the paint squishes between my fingers. The white carpet beneath my feet was already splotched with a rainbow of colors because of my bed, so the damage from the wall is unnoticeable.

I walk to my bathroom to scrub the paint from my eyelids and fingers. Afterwards, I go outside to bake in the sun while the green dries. The sun beats down from its position directly above me. I lay in the grass in my front yard and close my eyes. The blades of grass tickle my arms, and I feel free.

When I wake, I have a marginal sun burn. The sun has moved slightly, but still shines proudly in the sky. I go to my room to the grass green wall that is dry to the touch.

I pick up the paintbrush and dip it in the turquoise paint until it is soaked. I fling the paint at the green wall. It leaves a pattern of cerulean traveling diagonally across the wall as if I had cut the wall and found that it bleeds blue.

I repeat this action in many different positions until I am satisfied and echo it with the yellow. The tally marks are unsalvageable. I grin brightly with paint drying under my fingernails. The wind whistles through the window, quickly drying the paint.

I return the paint cans to the building and take a quick cold shower to soothe my sun burn and watch the paint colors swirl around the drain. My hair is short, barely curling around my ears when dry. It plasters to my forehead in stringy wet strands. After my shower I watch the sun set. I stay on the hood of my car until I fall asleep dreaming of paint colored people.

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            “Hello?” A muffled voice calls out in my dreams. I roll over trying to grab at my blanket

to shut out the noise.

“Hello?!” The voice is desperate this time. It reminds me of when I first arrived here. I grumble again, simply wanting to sleep. Eventually the voice fades away, and I settle back into slumber.

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I awake bemused on the hood of my car. Slowly, the remnants of my dreams filter back to me in sleepy haziness. My heart speeds when I remember the voice. A panic akin to my first day seizes me as I scramble off the hood of my car. I know it’s early morning because of the dew on the grass and the muted sun beams sifting through the tree leaves. I try to remember when the voice woke me, but I only remember the haziness of dreams because my eyes were closed. I growl irately. I don’t even know where to start searching!

I pace in my driveway for a couple seconds before shouting to the sky and taking off running towards the library. It was where I collapsed, and I believe that is my best lead.

Outside the library I stop to hunch over with my hands on my knees, gulping wildly for air. Anxiety and adrenaline claw through my veins as I stare at the glass doors of the library. Somehow, I know the person in there will be lying down, sleeping among the dust motes with a tear-stained face. I’m terrified and exhilarated. My hands shake as I reach for the handle and silently slip inside the dark building.

At a book case near the back of the library, I can see a pair of feet sticking out horizontally. It’s the fiction section. I suck in a mouthful of air and puff out my cheeks. I take silent steps to the person and peer around the bookshelf. The air leaves me in a loud whoosh.

The person is a boy, opposite of me, a girl. His face tugs in my mind, but I can’t place him anywhere because all I have known is my cage. Well, our cage now.

He has warm, tawny skin and hair as dark as night. It looks tousled and soft. He has a heart-shaped jaw and keen nose. His body is long and lean, and his cheeks are tear-stained. I slip a book off of the shelf and sit to wait until he wakes.

I can’t concentrate on my book and keep stealing glances at the boy’s face. He looks around my age, I suppose, although I’m not sure of my age. His skin color is close to mine but just a few shades darker. My hair is chestnut colored while his is the night with cloaked stars and moon. I fiercely desire to see his eyes, to see if their color will match my turquoise ones. I tap my fingers on my shoes in anticipation while I stare at his peaceful face.

As if by my pure will, the boy stirs, jerking awake. I jolt from the suddenness of his movements. I stare at him, alive and moving. My voice dies in my throat as his eyes flick to me.

His eyes are turquoise, just like mine.

“Sam?” he whispers incredulously. I can’t reply because the world fades to darkness.

Author's Note

be critical of this, please!