Back....With a Couple of Things
:) I know I haven't been here in a while, but I do have a couple of things. The first one....it's very important you don't scroll down until absolutely necessary. The second is the beginning of a story I've started writing, and haven't gotten too far with yet, mainly because I'm not sure where to go with it.
I've been sitting in this room for close to an hour now. It's impossible to see anything around me; there are no cracks in the walls to this place, no way to see in or out. The only access I have to the outside is a door, but I have no control over it. Someone or something much greater than I has access to the switch that will open it, and I have to wait until the right time to be let out. I'm locked up here in regular intervals, and each time it seems longer and longer, even though it's likely that is not the case. There is a kind of click-click-clicking pervading the walls, Chinese water torture for the ears. And all I can do is stand here and wait patiently. There are no chairs, no sofa. There is no bed. There's not even a table that I could perch on while patiently waiting out the sentence that has been decided for me. There is no food, but I'm not too worried about that. I'm always stuffed; that is probably the one thing I enjoy about this place.
But today the anticipation of finally being let free is getting to me more than it ever has before. I stand rigidly in my spot, tense, waiting for the mechanical clank that always precludes the door swinging open, allowing me out into the world until it's decided that I should once again be shut away. I feel a vague panic. What if this is the one time that it's decided that I never will be let out again? What will become of me? What if the door gets broken? Will it get fixed, or will I be tossed aside, forgotten about, and eventually die? A cold nervous sweat crops up on my body at this thought. Sure I will never be tossed aside. I'm far too much fun to the people that keep me here, in this room; of that one thing I am certain. I'm not entirely sure how or why that is. But I need to have some faith in something. My ears are pricked nervously. The ever-present clicking bounces off the walls, seemingly louder than ever before, mocking me. Just when I think I can stand it no longer, I hear the distinctive clink-thud-whirr of the motor, signifying that my confinement has, for the time being, come to an end. I rush toward the door as it swings outward slowly, and once I'm out the door I shout my excitement, for everyone to hear.
CUCKOO! CUCKOO!
-----------
The Underlings, they called us. Not much of a name, but then again they didn’t want us to think of ourselves as anything much. That was their job. We were always the ones backstage, the mice in the walls, the ones who left traces of life behind but were never actually seen. They were the ones who let us live in peace; at least until they decided that we had overstayed our welcome and it was time for a visit from the exterminator. But we’d always come back.
This was before the Revolution. Back when things were much different, much worse, than they are now. It was a time when none of us could do so much as breathe without fearing that maybe we had exhaled for too long, or had sucked too much of someone else’s oxygen out of the air. We never knew when they would decide that we had done something wrong and execute us. And God forbid any of us be seen by them. The whole reason we were there was to make sure the world they lived in was a magical place that didn’t need any upkeep. But this is no longer the case. We are now allowed to live amongst them, they amongst us.
Yet our past must not be forgotten, though it seems it is destined to be. As of now no one has bothered to write about our past and how we were able to arrive at the place we are now. And that is why I must now sit here at my desk, withering away slowly into nothingness as the last remnants of life fade from my body, to record the true story, just as I saw it happen with my own eyes.
Who am I? Well, it’s not so much a matter of who I am now, or more accurately what I have become. It’s a matter of who I used to be. I was one of the Underlings once, long ago, mistreated and taken advantage of like the rest of them. I was 176249. None of us had names; those would make us far too special, and so we were not allowed to use them. Instead we were numbers.
I've been sitting in this room for close to an hour now. It's impossible to see anything around me; there are no cracks in the walls to this place, no way to see in or out. The only access I have to the outside is a door, but I have no control over it. Someone or something much greater than I has access to the switch that will open it, and I have to wait until the right time to be let out. I'm locked up here in regular intervals, and each time it seems longer and longer, even though it's likely that is not the case. There is a kind of click-click-clicking pervading the walls, Chinese water torture for the ears. And all I can do is stand here and wait patiently. There are no chairs, no sofa. There is no bed. There's not even a table that I could perch on while patiently waiting out the sentence that has been decided for me. There is no food, but I'm not too worried about that. I'm always stuffed; that is probably the one thing I enjoy about this place.
But today the anticipation of finally being let free is getting to me more than it ever has before. I stand rigidly in my spot, tense, waiting for the mechanical clank that always precludes the door swinging open, allowing me out into the world until it's decided that I should once again be shut away. I feel a vague panic. What if this is the one time that it's decided that I never will be let out again? What will become of me? What if the door gets broken? Will it get fixed, or will I be tossed aside, forgotten about, and eventually die? A cold nervous sweat crops up on my body at this thought. Sure I will never be tossed aside. I'm far too much fun to the people that keep me here, in this room; of that one thing I am certain. I'm not entirely sure how or why that is. But I need to have some faith in something. My ears are pricked nervously. The ever-present clicking bounces off the walls, seemingly louder than ever before, mocking me. Just when I think I can stand it no longer, I hear the distinctive clink-thud-whirr of the motor, signifying that my confinement has, for the time being, come to an end. I rush toward the door as it swings outward slowly, and once I'm out the door I shout my excitement, for everyone to hear.
CUCKOO! CUCKOO!
-----------
The Underlings, they called us. Not much of a name, but then again they didn’t want us to think of ourselves as anything much. That was their job. We were always the ones backstage, the mice in the walls, the ones who left traces of life behind but were never actually seen. They were the ones who let us live in peace; at least until they decided that we had overstayed our welcome and it was time for a visit from the exterminator. But we’d always come back.
This was before the Revolution. Back when things were much different, much worse, than they are now. It was a time when none of us could do so much as breathe without fearing that maybe we had exhaled for too long, or had sucked too much of someone else’s oxygen out of the air. We never knew when they would decide that we had done something wrong and execute us. And God forbid any of us be seen by them. The whole reason we were there was to make sure the world they lived in was a magical place that didn’t need any upkeep. But this is no longer the case. We are now allowed to live amongst them, they amongst us.
Yet our past must not be forgotten, though it seems it is destined to be. As of now no one has bothered to write about our past and how we were able to arrive at the place we are now. And that is why I must now sit here at my desk, withering away slowly into nothingness as the last remnants of life fade from my body, to record the true story, just as I saw it happen with my own eyes.
Who am I? Well, it’s not so much a matter of who I am now, or more accurately what I have become. It’s a matter of who I used to be. I was one of the Underlings once, long ago, mistreated and taken advantage of like the rest of them. I was 176249. None of us had names; those would make us far too special, and so we were not allowed to use them. Instead we were numbers.