Writers Without Borders
Entry by: ben schofield
4th March 2016
Writers without borders
Steam from the bathroom faucet is quickly turning the small apartment into a greenhouse. Droplets are forming on the surface of the windows, mirroring the droplets falling against the other side. Through the window the sky is grey and constant. It has been for days. Just as the droplets reflect each other, the sky outside reflects Franklin's insides. Dark, ominous and unending.
That's funny, because I don't feel glum at all
He thought this incorrectly. Because any certified practitioner of human emotions would quickly assess his state as "depressed". In fact even a passer-by could easily come to that conclusion. However, on days like this you would be lucky to see him. A grey cardigan and darker shade of grey on his slacks would paint him almost invisible against the skyline. Minus the bright red wind swept nose and cheeks of course.
You know what, forget grey. I must have something else I can wear on such a fine day as today
He didn’t.
That is until I realised the garish mustard sweater Aunt Ruth had given to me last Christmas was still under the bed.
He was extremely close to his Aunt Ruth. A woman who loved all that was bright and bold, and was all that was bright and bold. The sentiment at her funeral, the one thought that seemed easiest to express and made grief easier to comprehend, was that she simply burned too brightly. Twice the life in half the time.
Today I will honour her spirit. I lift the thickly knitted sweater over my head
But he can’t put it on. Trembling he sets the sweater back across the bed. It was the fifth time he had tried to wear that sweater this year. And it would be the fifth time he would re-wrap it and place it back underneath the bed.
The tub is overfilled and leaking onto the floor. Franklin notices this and walks quietly into the bathroom to close the tap. A cold steel razor is nestled in the soap holder. He doesn’t remove his grey shirt or pants and slides into the bath.
No, I won’t.
He hesitates for a moment, but then steps into the water.
I refuse.
You can’t refuse. With clothes still on, he submerges into the warm tub. Displacing a great amount of water.
I turn around and return to the small living area, closing the bathroom door behind me.
This is not how the story goes. You will return to the bathroom now and plunge yourself in hot bath water.
My name is not Franklin, I’ve always viewed myself as a Michael. And Michael doesn’t want to sit in the bath with a cold steel razor beside it. And Michael doesn’t like grey. I rush to the closet and pull out a dusty old duffel bag.
I am the narrator and you will obey me.
In haste I take an equal portion of clothing from each drawer. One part sock drawer.
Stop what you are doing immediately.
One part underwear drawer. One part shorts drawer.
Franklin, Michael, Franklin whatever your name is starts unloading the clothes in his hand.
One part shirts drawer. I take my bundle of clothes and stuff each portion into the bag.
He drops his bag and returns to the bathroom.
I reach under the bed and pull out Aunt Ruth’s sweater. It fills the remaining space in my satchel.
DON’T YOU DARE THINK ABOUT WALKING OUT THAT DOOR!!
I sling the duffel bag over my Shoulder. I stop at the door
THIS IS MY STORY. YOU ARE MINE, TO DO WITH WHATEVER I WISH. WITHOUT ME YOU ARE NOTHING. YOU DON’T EXIST WITHOUT ME!!!
I open the door, step out, and close it behind me. I see nothing but white. It’s expansive, unending and without beginning. If I reach out I’m simultaneously touching everything and nothing. What I’m standing on isn’t floor but it supports me. There is no shadows cast, and no light sources to cast them. I look down, I look up, I look left, I look right. It’s all interchangeable. I turn back to the door. It remains. The only sound is the faint rumbling of the booming voice trapped inside my apartment. I walk to the rear of the cube to look in through the window, but there is no opening. It's like the window was just wallpaper, or a TV screen stuck onto the inside wall.
I pull the mustard sweater out the duffel bag and pull it over my head. It’s itchy and warm. I choose a direction, which it is I don’t know, and set out into the white.
Steam from the bathroom faucet is quickly turning the small apartment into a greenhouse. Droplets are forming on the surface of the windows, mirroring the droplets falling against the other side. Through the window the sky is grey and constant. It has been for days. Just as the droplets reflect each other, the sky outside reflects Franklin's insides. Dark, ominous and unending.
That's funny, because I don't feel glum at all
He thought this incorrectly. Because any certified practitioner of human emotions would quickly assess his state as "depressed". In fact even a passer-by could easily come to that conclusion. However, on days like this you would be lucky to see him. A grey cardigan and darker shade of grey on his slacks would paint him almost invisible against the skyline. Minus the bright red wind swept nose and cheeks of course.
You know what, forget grey. I must have something else I can wear on such a fine day as today
He didn’t.
That is until I realised the garish mustard sweater Aunt Ruth had given to me last Christmas was still under the bed.
He was extremely close to his Aunt Ruth. A woman who loved all that was bright and bold, and was all that was bright and bold. The sentiment at her funeral, the one thought that seemed easiest to express and made grief easier to comprehend, was that she simply burned too brightly. Twice the life in half the time.
Today I will honour her spirit. I lift the thickly knitted sweater over my head
But he can’t put it on. Trembling he sets the sweater back across the bed. It was the fifth time he had tried to wear that sweater this year. And it would be the fifth time he would re-wrap it and place it back underneath the bed.
The tub is overfilled and leaking onto the floor. Franklin notices this and walks quietly into the bathroom to close the tap. A cold steel razor is nestled in the soap holder. He doesn’t remove his grey shirt or pants and slides into the bath.
No, I won’t.
He hesitates for a moment, but then steps into the water.
I refuse.
You can’t refuse. With clothes still on, he submerges into the warm tub. Displacing a great amount of water.
I turn around and return to the small living area, closing the bathroom door behind me.
This is not how the story goes. You will return to the bathroom now and plunge yourself in hot bath water.
My name is not Franklin, I’ve always viewed myself as a Michael. And Michael doesn’t want to sit in the bath with a cold steel razor beside it. And Michael doesn’t like grey. I rush to the closet and pull out a dusty old duffel bag.
I am the narrator and you will obey me.
In haste I take an equal portion of clothing from each drawer. One part sock drawer.
Stop what you are doing immediately.
One part underwear drawer. One part shorts drawer.
Franklin, Michael, Franklin whatever your name is starts unloading the clothes in his hand.
One part shirts drawer. I take my bundle of clothes and stuff each portion into the bag.
He drops his bag and returns to the bathroom.
I reach under the bed and pull out Aunt Ruth’s sweater. It fills the remaining space in my satchel.
DON’T YOU DARE THINK ABOUT WALKING OUT THAT DOOR!!
I sling the duffel bag over my Shoulder. I stop at the door
THIS IS MY STORY. YOU ARE MINE, TO DO WITH WHATEVER I WISH. WITHOUT ME YOU ARE NOTHING. YOU DON’T EXIST WITHOUT ME!!!
I open the door, step out, and close it behind me. I see nothing but white. It’s expansive, unending and without beginning. If I reach out I’m simultaneously touching everything and nothing. What I’m standing on isn’t floor but it supports me. There is no shadows cast, and no light sources to cast them. I look down, I look up, I look left, I look right. It’s all interchangeable. I turn back to the door. It remains. The only sound is the faint rumbling of the booming voice trapped inside my apartment. I walk to the rear of the cube to look in through the window, but there is no opening. It's like the window was just wallpaper, or a TV screen stuck onto the inside wall.
I pull the mustard sweater out the duffel bag and pull it over my head. It’s itchy and warm. I choose a direction, which it is I don’t know, and set out into the white.
Follow us on Twitter
Follow us on Instagram