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This is a Title of a Short Story

This is a Title of a Short Story

A Story by The Proletarian
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A little piece I wrote, trying my best to capture asperger's syndrome in writing; a satire.

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I am right beside you in the line for coffee. I am sitting in the opera house, fixing my spectacle and watching the stage; while you enjoy a saturday afternoon at the bistro, I am serving you wine. In my head, I am a force of nature acting against itself; a form of perpetual mutual exclusion, a forced dichotomy of the will to live and the need to die. I am the perfect image of society, a man made of mirrors. When you smile politely and accept your groceries at the counter, or accept your tickets at the theatre, I am a reflection of everything you think you are.  But behind that role, in the inlets of self reflection- where I fold in on myself, and the glass reflects only against glass- I do not exist, a vague space of thought occupying the overlap of two forces, that part of me which seeks to die, and the ego that insists on staying alive to watch.

 

I am lying in a flambuoyant comforter set, flowers line the seams, thorns hiding the stitching like a bad joke. It smells like petroleum, and an air freshener thats sharp and sweet enough to go by the name of "ocean mist', or probably 'cool breeze', though there is a chance it is neither of these flavours. It hardly matters, most of it is lost in the open window by the bed, and the smell of freshly cut grass, testified by what is undoubtedly a lawnmower, hiding behind the cement shrubbery of a waist high brick wall.

 

There is also somebody in the room with me, a lady, the colour of her shirt blends almost perfectly into the wall behind her. She is my mother, and she is crying in a chair by the foot of the bed.

 

I am not confused. For the moment, I am ignoring her, not because I dont know why she could be crying, but because she has so many reasons to cry- if I were to pick any one reason and address it, its more likely than not that I would pick the wrong one.

 

I've had people ask me if I am depressed. They ask me and stare, timidly, as though I was a particularly challenging math question, or a busking performer in the middle of a particularly dangerous act. 'No', I say, 'I am not depressed'. Quite the opposite is true in fact. I couldnt say, accurately, what was going through my head when I decided to off myself, but I was probably considering how great my life was. I was young, in love, financially independant and without any modern disadvantages. It was so great, in fact, that I couldnt possibly see it getting any better. Perhaps I didnt want to want to wait around for it to get worse. Perhaps I was just anxious, or nervous.

 

I used to enjoy standing in the middle of the road, closing my eyes. I am not blind, and because I've never been blind, the sound of approaching cars- more specifically wheels againt pavement or tarmac- is both euphoric and terrifying, and fills me with what I am sure is a profound empathy for the blind.

 

I am closing my eyes now, and listening to my mother crying. I have practiced this, and am now deeply in touch with the people around me-socially and emotionally. I am counting the beats between her breaths, and it feels as though I am crying with her. I can even hear my father and sister waiting outside, and the clock on the wall. I can feel every person and thing that cares for me, and no one thing or feeling detracts from any other.

 

I am feeling her now, and she is still crying. I open my eyes.

 

 

It is christmas, and my mother is laughing. She is holding my sister, who is wearing shoes indoors. Her beige stockings match the kitchen set behind her- which itself isnt beige, but a lighter manilla made darker in a lamp that I can only faithfully compare to candlelight. My mother is an endless reserve of emotion, it amazes me- she is happy, and her happiness fills the room. My mother is laughing, and I am crying tears of joy.

 

Now she is crying, and my attention shifts to two new scars, badly traced lines from my wrist to my lower forearm. I am a ghost to her. My mother is crying, and I can do nothing but feel her.

 

She is crying, and I am smiling. I am the perfect reflection of who she wants to be.

© 2014 The Proletarian


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Added on May 31, 2014
Last Updated on June 6, 2014
Tags: Asperger's, internal monologue, Prose

Author

The Proletarian
The Proletarian

Toronto, Ontario, Canada



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