Floating In The Fragments

“Desperation lies in the workings of the fragmented human mind.”

The pen hovered over the empty sheets of paper. He blinked. Once. Twice. Still nothing. He let out a low whistle, letting the pen fall from his hand and roll onto the floor.

An involuntary tremor racked his body. Another one of those attacks. Gasping, sweating profusely, tensed, he waited, pausing for breath, to see if another one followed. But there was nothing. Only the dark empty suffocating silence creeping into the house.

Sighing, he reached into the top right drawer of his desk, searching for the packet of cigarettes that he knew was there. His fingers fumbled around clumsily for a few moments before closing around the packet he sought so desperately. The packet had been crushed under the combined weight of all the forgotten stories that lay there, left to their own forlorn devices. Nevertheless, with a little additional effort, he managed to extricate a cigarette from the relative debris. The lighter lay on the ivory laden desk, precociously balanced on its edge. So desolate.

He put the cigarette to his lips and reached for the lighter. His right hand was slippery from holding the pen so tight. A certain numbness had set in. He flexed his fingers before grabbing the lighter.

He brought the lighter close to his face, his hand trembling ever so slightly. He clicked. Once. Twice. On the third click, the flame erupted; the fire caressing the cigarette gently. The rustling sound of burning paper. He took a deep drag before throwing the aged lighter back on the desk.

Smoke. Flitting smoke rising through the air like wispy nightmares.

He exhaled, blowing the smoke in careless twirls.

He looked outside, through the barren window. It was getting dark now. The lazy sun was almost at her end. A hazy light illuminated the landscape, giving the distant grazing meadows an eerie appearance. The whole sight looked as if it had been done by a painter whose strokes lay burdened with the grief of the past years.

He shifted in his chair, restless. He could not bear to sit anymore…could not bear to stare into those blank sheets of paper. He wanted to get away. He wanted to see. The window seemed alluring now. It seemed to provide a sense of comfort. A sense of connection to the world he had left so desperately behind.

He pushed himself away from the desk, the chair scraping angrily against the wooden floorboards. With his hand resting on the edge of the desk, he stood up and made towards the window.

The ancient wood creaked under his feet. They sang and spoke of lost stories, of previous owners of the house, now gone and vanished. So real at first, reduced to imprint now. He smiled, grimly, at the thought of the years now lost forever, floating in the fragmented mind of another crippled being.

He placed his hands on the window sill and looked, soaking up what the window wanted to show him. Stretches of land broken by an awry fence thrown by a careless hand. Perfection tainted by man. He took another puff from the cigarette, the smoke relaxing his convoluted mind.  Soothing. Gentle. Like the enforced calm after war.

A light evening breeze blew now, caressing his face gently. It brought with it the smell of fresh grass and burnt wood. It fell upon his face in waves, reining in the tempest in his mind. He closed his eyes, letting himself go. He could feel himself being filled with an inexplicable sense of serene tranquillity. The kind of peace which precedes a storm. He stood by the window, not caring for time, till moments turned into seconds, seconds to minutes and minutes to final eternity.

Another tremor. Red. Burning. Metallic. He was left, heaped, on the floor, gasping for breath. This one was worse. Bile coated his tongue. His vision was left with a red hazy tinge.  Sweat adorned his brow. The cigarette had dropped and rolled a few feet away from where he had stood a few moments ago, lost in his seemingly eternal bliss. It still burnt with an ember glow. He did not care. He lay there, unable and afraid to move, curled into his own nightmare.

Time seemed to pass, with its ever so unrelenting smile. He slowly curled his hands into fists, putting as much of his dilapidated strength into them as he could. He paused for a moment before pushing himself up with their support. Grunting, he got to his knees. He remained like that, stooped, for the better part of an hour before mustering up the courage to stand up again.

Grabbing the window pane, his weight pushed against the wall, he slowly got to his feet. His legs felt unsteady...unreliable. He could not remain on his feet for long. He turned away from the window and moved towards his desk. It hurt to put too much strain on the legs.

Upon reaching, he collapsed into the chair, a bundle of broken dreams and aspirations. Slowly, he pushed his legs forward, trying to stretch it as far as he could. He winced in pain as he felt one of the tangled ligaments pop back into place. Lounging back on the chair, he waited for the pain to subside. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Time seemed to laugh back at him, hysterical in his defeat. He did not care to snap back at his cackling jailor. He was much too spent for it.

He watched the darkness creep in, slowly enveloping the house in its velvety blackness. The faint moonlight illuminated certain areas of the house. It created such a stark contrast that he wondered at the incongruity of it all. It was that painter again. A sigh escaped his lips.

He felt so lost. So out of touch. He had to escape.

He closed his eyes again. The darkness of the world followed him in the private recesses of his mind. He could sense the desperation lying stagnant in the house. It was suffocating. He retreated deep within, away from the foreboding reality. Away from everything else that was material. Memories. Scents. Faces. Words. Everything. It was comforting to be away, to be detached, he thought. The raging storm in his mind had receded somewhat, ushering in the feeling of anxiety he always felt.

He stood up, slowly, with his eyes closed. A brief pause and he opened his eyes. The moonlight hit him hard on his face. He shied away, turning his face towards the floor. A tear broke free. He blinked furiously, trying to prevent any more from escaping. An unforgivable feeling welled up inside him. He had to let it out. He had to let it escape.

Tears. Fragmented tears.

He took a few tentative steps, stumbling and wobbling dangerously. He gripped the chair for support. He could not afford to fall down. Not again. He looked around the room.

“The empty sheets of paper still lay there. He had hoped, desperately, for someone to come and take them away. They lay there, creaming, in unison, with all their emptiness...”

“The pen lay, still, on the floor, its ink dripping steadily on the wood…”

“The cigarette butt was static. Unmoving. It still gave off a faint light. It’s dying light almost at an end…”

The sun had begun to peep over the distant hills. He closed his eyes for the third and final time. He was floating in the fragments of his dreams. Floating forever. Smiling grimly, he waited, in vain, for a new dawn to come and take him away….