MuseBlog

small but fierce sent us this story of hers to read or post. Naturally, we’re posting it.

The boy perched on the brick steps, his small frame hunched intently over a ream of
papers. A fair lock fell over his eyelids; his lips tensing, he blew the flaxen
strands to the side.

The burnt red surface grew warm on his thighs-he stood up and smoothed down his
trousers. He pulled a pencil from his pocket, leaving a graphite trail across the
vast beige plain, and began to write.

Thomas Hatfield, nine. He glanced up briefly, and after a beat roughly
scratched out what he had written. Adjusting the glasses perched on the bridge of
his nose, he started anew.

Thomas Hatfield

Nine years old

London

Thoughts on Death

I don’t understand why everyone worries about death so much. They have this terrible
relationship with it, like it’s unnatural. Really it’s the most regular of things,
but it gets made into some terrifying event. Like recently, when William, Dad and I
went to the graveyard, they said it wasn’t Mom’s time to go. I figure, if she goes
then it’s her time. I mean

A shadow fell across his page: he looked up.

“Hi, Matt,” he said, his eyes flickering back to his paper, and waited for the
response he knew would come.

“Matthias is nicer.” The boy towered over Thomas awkwardly, an oblong silhouette
against the bright June sky. “What are you writing?”

“My thoughts on death. It seems a double standard that-”

“Do you want to go somewhere? It’s nice out.”

Thomas rested his head on his palms. “You know, ‘nice’ is a subjective term. I was
thinking, it’s truly in the eye of the beholder, but we as a species naturally
concur on what is appealing, because-“

“Whatever. How ‘bout we go get some-“

Thomas continued with his thought, pushing his wire frames up on his nose. “Like,
imagine if we were-if we were,“ he fumbled for a concept accessible to Matthias,
“all someone’s dream. They wouldn’t-“

“That’s the most irrelevant thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I didn’t finish my sentence.”

Matthias looked away, his eyes glazed over, not listening. “What if we are
somebody’s dream? That’s why we’re all the same, I bet. Somebody with no
imagination.”

“Perhaps, but that wasn’t really what I was trying to get across.” He waited for
acknowledgement.

Matthias shifted his weight to his right foot, dragging his wrist across his nose.
“Come on. Let’s go play badminton over near my house. The court’s really flat and it
absorbs heat.”

Thomas stared at the translucent curve cutting across Matthias’s pallid flesh, and
tilted his neck to one side in resignation. “I’ll put away my papers.”

This was a regular exchange between the two boys.

…

Thomas quietly opened the door, the prolonged creak seeming to echo in his ears. He
slipped through the gap, making sure to carefully pull the door shut to minimize the
traces. The wooden floorboards yawning under his weight, he crept toward his bedroom
to deposit his sheaf of papers.

As he laboriously shifted his weight forward and back, he breathed in the strong
musky scent which hung heavy about the house. Mom, he thought, and shook his head
slightly as if to rid his mind of the forbidden idea.

He was resigned to it, though; everything reminded him of Mom these days, and they
were all filled with memories: the chipped red paint on the kitchen table (she had
painted it and repainted it, struggling for perfection even when her rib cage
hollowed out), the bowl which used to hold her incense (it kept her sane, she said
near the end), the sense of emptiness, abandonment even, that seemed to be carried
on the drafts (even when the fireplace worked). He stared at the sun-faded curtains,
remembering how she had lusted after them for months and months-her staring
wistfully at the magazine which held them, her skeletal fingers tracing their glossy
curves.

Do you remember your plan? He had saved up his pocket money for one year
and four months-he remembered exactly-and then presented the money to her. To his
surprise, she started crying: “Thomas.” She kissed him through her tears. “I can’t
possibly accept this.”

He had meant to make her face radiate light, not crease in sorrow.

He heard a heavy footfall: he was caught.

“Hey.”

Wearily, he replied, “Hello, Dad.”

“Son. Where are you going?”

“To play badminton with Matthias. It’s a daily occurrence. I thought you’d
remember.” He felt oddly disappointed. I don’t particularly mind telling him,
though; why do I feel so betrayed?

Perhaps his father sensed Thomas’s mood, for he moistened his lips. “I know it’s
hard, Thomas. It’s hard for all of us. She was our anchor, and-”

His searching gaze made Thomas avert his eyes. “Your metaphors are overused.” He
didn’t mean to say it harshly, but there was a sharp edge to his voice.

His father shifted his gaze, his deep cobalt eyes tinged with hurt. “Go play
badminton with Matthias. Afterwards, pick up some crayons for William at the toy
shop.”

“I’ve never been there.”

“It’s down the road from the courts.”

“How do you know?”

“ I’ve been there.”

Thomas bit his hand, hard. His father, he thought with distaste, brought out the
most human emotions in him.

…

The creak of the old wooden door mingled with the tinkling chime of the bell as
Thomas entered.

“Why, hello. What may I get for you today, young man?”

Thomas stared at the saleswoman positioned by the door with detachment: he noticed
the upturned mouth-he could tell her smile was genuine by the crinkles of her
eyes-but how did he know? I have practice. Dad smiles, but his eyes never
squinch up at the edges. He noticed the once-crisp blouse stained brown down
the front with clinging flecks of dishtowel string. He noticed the small mole
marking her cheekbone. He noticed the orange rings around her iris.

As he surveyed her translucent teeth with their hint of lipstick, he felt a strange
sudden twinge-of what? He had never viewed anyone’s mere appearance with anything
other than impartiality. He couldn’t place the feeling. Feeling vaguely
disconcerted, he broke out of his reverie with a faint, “My brother wants a set of
crayons.”

“Very fun,” enthused the saleswoman. “Follow me.” She turned, her pleated skirt
rippling behind her, and clicked her way across the worn wooden floor.

As he followed behind, he observed the crooked wooden shelves held more than the
conventional array of toys; there were mysterious trinkets galore, which gave off
the aura of originating from some exotic locale. He was not filled with a sense of
wonder, but it was admirable all the same that they could make their journey all the
way here for the sole purpose, it seemed, of making themselves known to him. If
I hadn’t seen them I wouldn’t know they existed, he thought.

“Do you want anything for yourself? Those trinkets you’re looking at are very nice.
Very exotic.” The saleswoman snapped him out of his thoughts.

Red-faced and confused as to why, Thomas murmured, “No, thank you. I’m nine,” as if
that would somehow justify his embarrassment. He immediately reflected on how
typically childish those words sounded, and averted his eyes from the saleswoman’s
eager gaze.

“Oh, no! The crayons seem to be sold out!” the saleswoman said, her upturned lips
betraying her statement. “I’ll check in the back.”

“Thank you,” Thomas replied to her retreating form.

As the saleswoman disappeared into the back room, a glint of light struck his eye:
he glanced over at the source.

A small porcelain figure: a perfect curve. An elephant.

He stared at the slope of its trunk-it seemed to be reaching out for something, but,
perched on the dented shelf, it seemed to be gazing out into the divide. What is
it reaching for? he wondered, staring at the flaking plaster on the low ceiling.
Me? Matt? Father? The world? He didn’t understand.

Suddenly, he felt a stirring-a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. An omen?
he thought, and then rebuked himself for being so irrational. Some subconscious
impulse propelled him to the shelf-he was dimly aware of his fingers closing around
the ceramic. He placed it in his pocket and walked out of the store, finding a
packet of crayons and a book called Teddy tucked behind the rack of children’s books
in the corner.

…

The sun glared into Thomas’s eyes: he squinted, wrinkling his nose, and quickly
strode to the other side of the cobblestone road. Once in the dappled shade, he
relaxed and his pace slowed.

He ambled along the street, pausing to tuck his hair over his delicate shell ear.
What is going on? He racked his brain for a diagnosis, but came up with
nothing. This sensation is strange.

…

Thomas shifted on the hot brick -not in discomfort, just for a change in position.
He placed his right hand against his brow, shielding his eyes from the sun, and
picked up his pencil from the burnt red surface.

The familiar shadow fell across his vision-feeling vaguely irritable, he kept his
gaze on his paper.

“Hi, Matt.”

“I told you, Matthias is nicer. What’s that you have in your hand?”

He knows what I have in my hand , he thought, but said nothing. “Notes.”

“About what?”

“Death.”

“You always write about death. What the hell do you write about that for?”

“I was just thinking how it gets all blown out of proportion. People die every day,
every second- – it’s really so ordinary, but when it happens to someone close to us
we get frantic. If we don’t care about people we don’t know dying, then why is it so
bad when it happens to someone else?”

“Well, then they’re gone.” Matthias dug the toe of his scuffed boot into the ground.
“Let’s go play badminton. It’s nice weather out.”

Thomas pressed on. “I was reading that book called Teddy, and the boy was talking
about the orange peels. He was thinking if he didn’t see them he couldn’t tell they
existed, and when they disappear from his vision it will be only in his mind that
they ever did in that sense. See, they really only existed in his mind, kind of, and
if you think about it everything only exists in people’s minds. Feelings, anything.
You know, my ele-”

“So I don’t exist.”

You exist, just not physically. To someone in Africa, it’s as if you don’t exist. To
you, it’s as if my ele-”

“So I don’t exist,” Matt repeated, and plunked down on the steps next to Thomas.

“No. See, Teddy said that after he leaves this world-that means when he dies-he’ll
only exist in the minds of the people he’s influenced. To someone you haven’t, you
don’t. Really, any of us are just orange peels, when you think about it from an
impartial viewpoint.”

“So we’re just narcissists?”

“Well…” Thomas paused, feeling vaguely irritated. “Perhaps we are; we may be too
attached to our race to really accept the orange peel theory. You know, the
Buddhists-“

“So now I’m an orange peel. You said I don’t exist, and now I’m an orange peel.”

Thomas stared at his companion in raw dismay. “No. Teddy meant that-“

“I don’t give a damn what Teddy meant. You used to be fun, and-“

“I wasn’t fun,” Thomas murmured. “I was just silent.”

“Shut up,” Matthias said uncertainly, and his eyes widened in realization of his
statement. He went on bravely, “Whenever I try to play with you, you go spouting
some existential rubbish-‘we’re all a dream!’-and get all solemn.”

“Why are you so upset with me? I thought we were friends.” He rubbed the elephant in
his pocket, his finger outlining the ear. “B-best friends. I thought you would-“

Matthias pushed off the brick steps. “I don’t have to be friends with you. You’re
only nine. And don’t say it’s not a big difference. I have plenty of-“ he
hesitated-“of other friends who are perfectly normal.”

Thomas expelled the words quickly, before he had a chance to think. “When you say
normal, do you mean like you? Because I think-“

Matt whirled around, his fists clenched, his pale azure eyes welling up with tears.
“I mean not like you! Do you know what everyone says about you?” he asked, his voice
trembling. “They-they say you’re a bloody maniac! They think you’re crazy!”

“Oh,” Thomas said softly, and his gaze flicked downward. “Why?”

“You-you analyze everything!” With that final syllable borne into the space
between the two boys, Matthias turned and ran down the cobblestone road, crying
outright.

Thomas, blinking rapidly, picked up his blunt pencil and resumed writing.

I mean, Dad thinks I’m unemotional for not crying about Mom ,
but I just see things clearly. I feel no vitriol for the people whose death I
accept.

I’m realistic.

He paused, picking up his pencil, and flicked his hair out of his face.

Then he scrawled three words on his paper: I’m not crazy

He was quite like Teddy, he decided.

…

Thomas flung open the door-it ricocheted against the wall, forming a slight dent. He
ran straight to his room, not bothering to close the door, and flung himself on his
bed, papers crumpling and gradually sinking into the mattress.

Now completely horizontal, he slipped a hand into his pocket and traced the perfect
slope of the elephant’s smooth trunk: a perfect worry stone. How funny, he
thought, that it assuages the worry caused by itself. He laughed through his tears,
sniffling noisily. A thought came upon him: it wouldn’t be funny to anyone else.
That started another torrent of tears, and he curled in upon himself, sobbing
into his pillow.

He couldn’t stop.

This has to be a dream, he thought. It has to. Otherwise I might as
well die. He bit the down, gnashing his teeth and sobbing. He found himself
moaning, his tear-streaked face contorted with pain: “Why did you do it? Why?” He
vaguely realized he had no control. Still he kept crying: “Why? Why?”

He couldn’t stop.

…

“Thomas. Tom. It’s O.K.” He awoke to the soothing tone of his father’s voice. “It’s
going to be O.K.”

Thomas sniffled. “The world isn’t O.K. You’re lying to me.”

His father smiled ruefully. “There are problems, but we just need to work them out.
I know you’re mature enough to-“

Thomas snapped. “How do you know I’m mature enough? I’m nine! Don’t make
assumptions.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s all?”

“What?”

“Say something.”

“What should I say?”

Thomas was filled with a sudden urgency, terror even. “Anything! Just
say-something!”

His father grew calm, the way one does when one has cried for a long time. “I-“ he
exhaled-“I don’t have anything to say.”

The look of helplessness on his father’s face was as grotesquely obvious. It
reminded Thomas of the funny clowns and carnival masks he and his mother saw when
they went to the fair-he didn’t particularly enjoy it, but his mother had a golden
glow. “You have to! You’re my father!“

He took the perfect elephant, the beauty, the scourge, and threw it on the ground. A
strangled, choked cry arose from his throat: “Mother-“

Tears fell, and the shards collected on the ground.

…

“We all miss her, Thomas. We all miss her. I loved her. I love her. I love you. I
love you…” Thomas was vaguely aware of his father’s soft murmurings as he arose from
his dreamlike state-was it a dream?

He was jolted alert. A dream.

Opening his eyes, he felt the soothing circles of his father’s fingers on his temple
tremble and cease. “Keep doing that.”

“Why should I?”

“Because it feels nice.” Thomas leaned into his father(his!)’s shoulder, and sank
into him.

Father kissed him, softly, on the forehead. “O.K.”

Was it a dream? Thomas felt the answer.