A Man in a Room
By Luke Labern
I just found a whole bunch of writing I'd completely forgotten about -- we're talking stuff from four years ago, here. Of course, coyness is not the correct emotion to display here: only honesty. So I'll post things vaguely interesting from the year 2008 under the appropriate tag.
* * *
The remains of the clear and volatile liquid settled to the bottom of its glass chamber. What had just been removed slid down the throat of a man of interest, causing him to involuntarily shake his head and close his eyes. There was still half a bottle left; so he rose the bottle into the air, pointing the base to the ceiling. A torrent of poison made its way inside. Again and again he repeated this until there was nought but a trickle – mere droplets of rum – that fell onto his cold lips.
He was suitably dizzy, and did not make an attempt to get up. Inside this room, smelling only as dull and pitiful as it looked, he was leaning against his reflection. If there was ever a more grey and less charismatic four walls, he did not know of it. There was not much inside the room except this mirror. There was a wardrobe of old clothes which had long fallen out of use and taste, and a few posters and notes attached to a dirty wallpaper surrounding what could have been a potentially interesting room. Instead, the carpet was dirty from hours of pacing to and fro, tears that had been soaked up and, it seemed, the arguments which had rung out in this space so many times had begun to crumble even the room's inanimate state. As soon as a person walked into this room, such as the police officers who would just three days later, they were immediately aware of what had gone on. The very thoughts that our now druken character had thought whilst painfully musing on this floor become apparent to even the simplest of visitors.
However, the mirror was the centrepiece and epitome of this bedroom (though the bed had been removed some time ago, leaving only an armchair). Umbrage pierced our man, when he stared in this reflective surface. So much so could he see the truth of his flakey and restricted life that it could reduce him to nothing but pebbles; a fine dust of self-confidence, whereas others appeared to him as cliffs. Of course they could be worn away in time – for everyone has their doomsday – but he had already felt himself become the sort of being who lines cracks in pavements. He felt not so much like the fly on the wall but the former coat of paint that had been painted over in a new and more popular colour. He was past and forgotten memories. He wholly believed that he would only be rediscovered once the whole house had been demolished: within rubble mere specks of his existence would show.
This man resented even his own name. He was just a man in a room. 'A protagonist and antagonist,' he randomly said. His choppy thought pattern now was what he had drunk all of that alcohol for. 'Ah, now I can't... Bother myself, even.' The intoxicated state he was in was not world-beating or especial: there were, at that very moment, many people who had binged for reasons but similar and opposite. Many were out without their inhibitions intact, to explore the night-life around their seedy cities and to dance.
In a way, they most likely wanted to feel out of themselves for the same reasons: they were "bored" of day-to-day reality and needed to feel something different. 'Perhaps they can find pleas—uure' he tried to get out, to no one but himself, attempted to turn around and look in the mirror behind him.
He couldn't do it. He had dropped the bottle on the floor behind him and was leaning on the mirror with both hands, but he could not open his eyelids. He hated what was in front of him too much. He was perturbed by the echoes of past relationships: friends, loves, family. They had all gone now. None but nature was to blame: he was merely an extension of this. He was the cause of some of these alienations – but death had claimed others.
He felt as heavy as a statue, and with all the intentions of one: he did not want to move. Unfortunately, he was the most unlucky of all statues. He had emotions. His clothes suddenly felt like an incredible burden. He attempted to unbutton his shirt but could only undo a couple that fell easily to hand. In a flash of anger he ripped the rest off with one hand. 'Fuck'n... Buttons,' he grumbled.
The only reason he had consumed this vile liquid was so he could look himself in the face via the mirror. But he couldn't do it. There was only one thing he could think to do on this night. Knowing every inch of his establishment, he kept his eyes closed, and – still drunk – made his way to his bed on the other side of the house. On the way he cried much, as if he was bringing the very aurora of that room along every hall in the house. It followed him like a cloud, bringing nothing but despair to every other inch of paint and innocent cement in the house.
When he arrived at his bed he could only slump in front of it. He burst fully into a flood of tears: 'I've not spoken to anyone in so long... My only friends, these walls! I would bring...' (he choked on tears and found breathing difficult in his now dangerously overwhelmed state) 'bring that feeling to all of the house...'
Before he fell unconscious from exhaustion and drunkenness, right there on the floor next to the bed, which he couldn't quite reach, he shouted out loud, 'Why has the ... It was when the... sky! The sky is to blame, just like the dirt. Every part of it. As soon as I saw the clouds and they were not white: when they were grey. That's when I knew...'
The next morning he awoke in a different mood. Parts of his stupor crawled around his thoughts, whilst he tried extremely hard to forget as much as possible. 'What nonsense I said.' He felt so guilty – this was not a new feeling in any way – that he decided he would apologise to the world by physically writing down something, so that nature could forget what he had said the night before and all the months leading up to it.
It read:
I visit you briefly,
But each time is worse. You don't hide or
Lie. I die. I try
To avoid you, but it never works:
You show me; the same me.
I used to love you, but now I hate
You.
I am you, or rather
You are the opposite of me.
So why are we so alike?
I wake up to you and fall asleep after a wink
Each time is the same, but the days are different.
Be it a mon, a sun or a sat
We will always meet, and I will never
Escape.
I'm sorry, though really you should be:
We are one and the same.
You and I, that is, me --
We just host and share a gaze that will
Forever pierce me, and forever
Reflect.
* * *
What did he look like? Only the mirror can tell you that.
* * *
The remains of the clear and volatile liquid settled to the bottom of its glass chamber. What had just been removed slid down the throat of a man of interest, causing him to involuntarily shake his head and close his eyes. There was still half a bottle left; so he rose the bottle into the air, pointing the base to the ceiling. A torrent of poison made its way inside. Again and again he repeated this until there was nought but a trickle – mere droplets of rum – that fell onto his cold lips.
He was suitably dizzy, and did not make an attempt to get up. Inside this room, smelling only as dull and pitiful as it looked, he was leaning against his reflection. If there was ever a more grey and less charismatic four walls, he did not know of it. There was not much inside the room except this mirror. There was a wardrobe of old clothes which had long fallen out of use and taste, and a few posters and notes attached to a dirty wallpaper surrounding what could have been a potentially interesting room. Instead, the carpet was dirty from hours of pacing to and fro, tears that had been soaked up and, it seemed, the arguments which had rung out in this space so many times had begun to crumble even the room's inanimate state. As soon as a person walked into this room, such as the police officers who would just three days later, they were immediately aware of what had gone on. The very thoughts that our now druken character had thought whilst painfully musing on this floor become apparent to even the simplest of visitors.
However, the mirror was the centrepiece and epitome of this bedroom (though the bed had been removed some time ago, leaving only an armchair). Umbrage pierced our man, when he stared in this reflective surface. So much so could he see the truth of his flakey and restricted life that it could reduce him to nothing but pebbles; a fine dust of self-confidence, whereas others appeared to him as cliffs. Of course they could be worn away in time – for everyone has their doomsday – but he had already felt himself become the sort of being who lines cracks in pavements. He felt not so much like the fly on the wall but the former coat of paint that had been painted over in a new and more popular colour. He was past and forgotten memories. He wholly believed that he would only be rediscovered once the whole house had been demolished: within rubble mere specks of his existence would show.
This man resented even his own name. He was just a man in a room. 'A protagonist and antagonist,' he randomly said. His choppy thought pattern now was what he had drunk all of that alcohol for. 'Ah, now I can't... Bother myself, even.' The intoxicated state he was in was not world-beating or especial: there were, at that very moment, many people who had binged for reasons but similar and opposite. Many were out without their inhibitions intact, to explore the night-life around their seedy cities and to dance.
In a way, they most likely wanted to feel out of themselves for the same reasons: they were "bored" of day-to-day reality and needed to feel something different. 'Perhaps they can find pleas—uure' he tried to get out, to no one but himself, attempted to turn around and look in the mirror behind him.
He couldn't do it. He had dropped the bottle on the floor behind him and was leaning on the mirror with both hands, but he could not open his eyelids. He hated what was in front of him too much. He was perturbed by the echoes of past relationships: friends, loves, family. They had all gone now. None but nature was to blame: he was merely an extension of this. He was the cause of some of these alienations – but death had claimed others.
He felt as heavy as a statue, and with all the intentions of one: he did not want to move. Unfortunately, he was the most unlucky of all statues. He had emotions. His clothes suddenly felt like an incredible burden. He attempted to unbutton his shirt but could only undo a couple that fell easily to hand. In a flash of anger he ripped the rest off with one hand. 'Fuck'n... Buttons,' he grumbled.
The only reason he had consumed this vile liquid was so he could look himself in the face via the mirror. But he couldn't do it. There was only one thing he could think to do on this night. Knowing every inch of his establishment, he kept his eyes closed, and – still drunk – made his way to his bed on the other side of the house. On the way he cried much, as if he was bringing the very aurora of that room along every hall in the house. It followed him like a cloud, bringing nothing but despair to every other inch of paint and innocent cement in the house.
When he arrived at his bed he could only slump in front of it. He burst fully into a flood of tears: 'I've not spoken to anyone in so long... My only friends, these walls! I would bring...' (he choked on tears and found breathing difficult in his now dangerously overwhelmed state) 'bring that feeling to all of the house...'
Before he fell unconscious from exhaustion and drunkenness, right there on the floor next to the bed, which he couldn't quite reach, he shouted out loud, 'Why has the ... It was when the... sky! The sky is to blame, just like the dirt. Every part of it. As soon as I saw the clouds and they were not white: when they were grey. That's when I knew...'
The next morning he awoke in a different mood. Parts of his stupor crawled around his thoughts, whilst he tried extremely hard to forget as much as possible. 'What nonsense I said.' He felt so guilty – this was not a new feeling in any way – that he decided he would apologise to the world by physically writing down something, so that nature could forget what he had said the night before and all the months leading up to it.
It read:
I visit you briefly,
But each time is worse. You don't hide or
Lie. I die. I try
To avoid you, but it never works:
You show me; the same me.
I used to love you, but now I hate
You.
I am you, or rather
You are the opposite of me.
So why are we so alike?
I wake up to you and fall asleep after a wink
Each time is the same, but the days are different.
Be it a mon, a sun or a sat
We will always meet, and I will never
Escape.
I'm sorry, though really you should be:
We are one and the same.
You and I, that is, me --
We just host and share a gaze that will
Forever pierce me, and forever
Reflect.
* * *
What did he look like? Only the mirror can tell you that.
A Short Story,
Published 01 February 2012
Published 01 February 2012