You’re empty, hollow inside. I expect one day you’ll float away. You realise that I’m watching you intently. You feel a little uncomfortable and shift your weight left to right on a chair. Roly-poly. The chair is resistant to your weight, but at the same time its springs ache with age and collapse inwards, ever so slightly. You nervously stroke your chin, wondering why I am pacing back and forth across the room. I pace restlessly but exactly. One two three four one two three four one two three four.
I turn suddenly on my heel and look at you again. I see you flinch, but you manage to hide it, mostly. I ask you why you thought that it was wise to do what you had done. But you can’t remember at all that which you had done. That is because there is nothing inside of you but a niggling fear and dust. At your autopsy, the doctor will make no remarks. Your file will be thin, nothing interesting. But for some reason you have decided to carry on.
Why is it that people carry on? Carry on, Jeeves. Is there some sort of characteristic embedded in the skin: “Keep going until you drop dead”? You stare lifelessly at me. The light is gone from your eyes. I sit across from you and light a cigarette. The smoke curls lazily in the air; the cigarette rests lightly between my fingers, smoking but unsmoked. This paradoxical state of being reminds me of you.
You decide that it’s time to leave. You thank me for my time and shut the door soundly behind you.
Brief note: I was inspired by a story by Andrei Sinyavsky called “You and I”, or Ты и я. It wasn’t so much the content (apart from You’s paranoia) that inspired me as the perspective. Not many stories are told from “Your” Perspective… On this story’s short length.. I like bite-sized stories with a certain thoughtfulness about them. This story is unedited but I feel like it has something interesting in it. Please comment!