- Pronoun
- he/him
And sometimes I feel like sharing! What luck.
*
The boy was in bed and under the covers when the fairy came. At first there was only a green light, barely enough to illuminate the small, stark room. Then something changed, and the boy’s head jerked up.
‘Hello,’ he said, no question in the word.
There was silence. The boy nodded. Then, apparently settling in for the long haul, he propped up his thin pillow against the cold stone wall and leaned back on it.
The light had not got much stronger, but it was sufficient now that the shadows in the corners were no longer pools of blackness. Its source, too, was becoming more obvious: a spot of air, slightly above the simple wooden chair which, along with the desk beside it, made up the rest of the room’s furnishings. It was hard to see unless you knew where to look, but there was definitely a coalescence, as if the surrounding light were being drawn in to the spot.
Some time passed. The boy appeared to be perfectly at ease, his arms by his sides and his head tilted slightly to the right. The light remained constant. After the silence had stretched so much that even the most ardent may have admitted that perhaps the boy was imagining things after all, he spoke:
‘It’s rude, you know. Sitting there like that. Won’t you say hello?’ His voice was steady, but there was a child’s plea in it, a tone that bordered on a whine.
This time there was a reaction. The spot of air above the chair shifted abruptly, and the boy smiled. He gestured at the bed.
The spot moved imperceptibly, a few centimetres toward the bed. Then a few more. Then it stopped, as if considering. A few moments more passed, during which the boy’s expression grew steadily more stricken, then the spot hesitantly floated towards the bad and alighted at its foot. The boy smiled.
‘So?’ he asked, a hint of eagerness in his voice. The light – it seemed more concentrated around the foot of his bed now, its pretence seen through – pulsed slightly. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me how I knew you were there?’ The childish delight of knowing some secret thing filled his words.
The light said no.
It was not a physical thing, this saying, not a matter of compressed air. Nor was it a mystical thought that would float from it straight into the boy’s mind – though he likely imagined it as such. All the same, the light said no.
The boy frowned. He said nothing.
The light sat at the foot of the bed with all the sullen air of a child backed into a corner, refusing to give way with all the dignity of her five years.
Shouldn’t, the light not-said.
The boy’s face widened in a grin. ‘Shouldn’t what?’
Know, the light verified. You are unstuck.
The boy watched it, waiting for further clarification, but these words had apparently exhausted the light’s penchant for conversation. He struggled to remain quiet for a time, but again his child’s nature betrayed him.
‘Unstuck? What does that mean?’ he asked.
You are not you not here, the light said.
The boy blinked. ‘What do you mean, not here?’
The light pulsed once, quickly, then returned to steadiness. What are you outside? it asked him.
A puzzled expression crossed the boy’s face. ‘Outside?’
A pulse of affirmation.
‘I don’t understand. What is outside?’
Rock and snow and cold, the light told him. The boy’s face remained blank. World, the light added. The boy’s face lit in recognition.
‘The world! Why, this is the world. The walls and the bed and the desk and the chair.’ He grinned. The light’s colour paled, took on a sickly hue.
More, it said. You are unstuck. You must find yourself in the outside.
A flash of anger, his hands tightening into fists and relaxing. ‘I am not unstuck!’ It was not quite a shout. ‘I don’t know what you mean! I am me!’ There were tears in his voice.
A dim sadness filled the light. You must find yourself, it repeated. Slowly it rose from its position at the foot of the bed, rose and floated towards a part of the wall. It stopped, and the illumination seemed to withdraw from the room, focusing on a part of the wall.
The wall disappeared.
The room was filled with wind, the whine of wind on rock and in the trees, and a flurry of icy cold snow swept through its bareness. The boy shouted, in surprise and anger and shock at the cold, cold wind. But he was a boy, and he took a step towards the wall, and another, until he was standing at the edge of the world looking out.
The light pulsed its satisfaction.
‘What… ?’ The words would not form in his mind.
Outside, came the echo.
The boy took another step forward, and now he is sinking into the snow and his feet are cold, oh so cold, but they are wet and buffeted by the wind and each feeling is a feast, a feast of senses and awareness. The wind is shrieking its way toward him, now it is in his hair, it is whipping his hair across his face and his mouth is open in silent surprise at this, this difference, this wildness, this utter unknown.
There is something ahead, something tall and dark and silhouetted against the white sweeping snow, but it is stunted, stunted like- like- and here the thought fails him, because he does not know what it is, nor what it is like, nor anything that is like it, and it is bare and new and so shocking, so shocking in the whiteness.
But there is something in his mind, it says, this is right, this is right, before was wrong and he thinks, yes, this is right, and then it is as if he is a stranger looking in on another person (and what is this, this other person, there is him and he is a person and he is not another-) and his mind screams no, no, no! and then he is overcome and sinks to his knees in the snow, sinks until his knees, red and cold and bruised, hit solid ground.
Yet there is some wisp of thought that remains, and his mind tells his body, move!, and it moves, slowly, slowly, but it moves, rises, turns around. He looks towards the bricks and the stones of the room (what room? the room! there was never a room, what is a room?) and looks for- for- for what, or who, there is no one there, there has never been anyone there, he has been alone since- since he was, he has been alone, alone in the outside and the outside has been his world.
He is hardly aware of lying back in the white puffy snow, it is warm, it is comfortable, he shall face the challenges of the world tomorrow, and then there is blackness, blackness, warm comfortable blackness that envelops him, and then there is an odd jerk and it seems as if something is squeezing him, squeezing the life right out of him, stop, stop, he thinks, you are hurting me, and in the distance someone is crying.
*
The boy was in bed and under the covers when the fairy came. At first there was only a green light, barely enough to illuminate the small, stark room. Then something changed, and the boy’s head jerked up.
‘Hello,’ he said, no question in the word.
There was silence. The boy nodded. Then, apparently settling in for the long haul, he propped up his thin pillow against the cold stone wall and leaned back on it.
The light had not got much stronger, but it was sufficient now that the shadows in the corners were no longer pools of blackness. Its source, too, was becoming more obvious: a spot of air, slightly above the simple wooden chair which, along with the desk beside it, made up the rest of the room’s furnishings. It was hard to see unless you knew where to look, but there was definitely a coalescence, as if the surrounding light were being drawn in to the spot.
Some time passed. The boy appeared to be perfectly at ease, his arms by his sides and his head tilted slightly to the right. The light remained constant. After the silence had stretched so much that even the most ardent may have admitted that perhaps the boy was imagining things after all, he spoke:
‘It’s rude, you know. Sitting there like that. Won’t you say hello?’ His voice was steady, but there was a child’s plea in it, a tone that bordered on a whine.
This time there was a reaction. The spot of air above the chair shifted abruptly, and the boy smiled. He gestured at the bed.
The spot moved imperceptibly, a few centimetres toward the bed. Then a few more. Then it stopped, as if considering. A few moments more passed, during which the boy’s expression grew steadily more stricken, then the spot hesitantly floated towards the bad and alighted at its foot. The boy smiled.
‘So?’ he asked, a hint of eagerness in his voice. The light – it seemed more concentrated around the foot of his bed now, its pretence seen through – pulsed slightly. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me how I knew you were there?’ The childish delight of knowing some secret thing filled his words.
The light said no.
It was not a physical thing, this saying, not a matter of compressed air. Nor was it a mystical thought that would float from it straight into the boy’s mind – though he likely imagined it as such. All the same, the light said no.
The boy frowned. He said nothing.
The light sat at the foot of the bed with all the sullen air of a child backed into a corner, refusing to give way with all the dignity of her five years.
Shouldn’t, the light not-said.
The boy’s face widened in a grin. ‘Shouldn’t what?’
Know, the light verified. You are unstuck.
The boy watched it, waiting for further clarification, but these words had apparently exhausted the light’s penchant for conversation. He struggled to remain quiet for a time, but again his child’s nature betrayed him.
‘Unstuck? What does that mean?’ he asked.
You are not you not here, the light said.
The boy blinked. ‘What do you mean, not here?’
The light pulsed once, quickly, then returned to steadiness. What are you outside? it asked him.
A puzzled expression crossed the boy’s face. ‘Outside?’
A pulse of affirmation.
‘I don’t understand. What is outside?’
Rock and snow and cold, the light told him. The boy’s face remained blank. World, the light added. The boy’s face lit in recognition.
‘The world! Why, this is the world. The walls and the bed and the desk and the chair.’ He grinned. The light’s colour paled, took on a sickly hue.
More, it said. You are unstuck. You must find yourself in the outside.
A flash of anger, his hands tightening into fists and relaxing. ‘I am not unstuck!’ It was not quite a shout. ‘I don’t know what you mean! I am me!’ There were tears in his voice.
A dim sadness filled the light. You must find yourself, it repeated. Slowly it rose from its position at the foot of the bed, rose and floated towards a part of the wall. It stopped, and the illumination seemed to withdraw from the room, focusing on a part of the wall.
The wall disappeared.
The room was filled with wind, the whine of wind on rock and in the trees, and a flurry of icy cold snow swept through its bareness. The boy shouted, in surprise and anger and shock at the cold, cold wind. But he was a boy, and he took a step towards the wall, and another, until he was standing at the edge of the world looking out.
The light pulsed its satisfaction.
‘What… ?’ The words would not form in his mind.
Outside, came the echo.
The boy took another step forward, and now he is sinking into the snow and his feet are cold, oh so cold, but they are wet and buffeted by the wind and each feeling is a feast, a feast of senses and awareness. The wind is shrieking its way toward him, now it is in his hair, it is whipping his hair across his face and his mouth is open in silent surprise at this, this difference, this wildness, this utter unknown.
There is something ahead, something tall and dark and silhouetted against the white sweeping snow, but it is stunted, stunted like- like- and here the thought fails him, because he does not know what it is, nor what it is like, nor anything that is like it, and it is bare and new and so shocking, so shocking in the whiteness.
But there is something in his mind, it says, this is right, this is right, before was wrong and he thinks, yes, this is right, and then it is as if he is a stranger looking in on another person (and what is this, this other person, there is him and he is a person and he is not another-) and his mind screams no, no, no! and then he is overcome and sinks to his knees in the snow, sinks until his knees, red and cold and bruised, hit solid ground.
Yet there is some wisp of thought that remains, and his mind tells his body, move!, and it moves, slowly, slowly, but it moves, rises, turns around. He looks towards the bricks and the stones of the room (what room? the room! there was never a room, what is a room?) and looks for- for- for what, or who, there is no one there, there has never been anyone there, he has been alone since- since he was, he has been alone, alone in the outside and the outside has been his world.
He is hardly aware of lying back in the white puffy snow, it is warm, it is comfortable, he shall face the challenges of the world tomorrow, and then there is blackness, blackness, warm comfortable blackness that envelops him, and then there is an odd jerk and it seems as if something is squeezing him, squeezing the life right out of him, stop, stop, he thinks, you are hurting me, and in the distance someone is crying.
