A Collision of Worlds
When I nodded off, pillows at my back, laptop propped on my knees and browsing BNHA fanart, the last thing I expected was to wake up with a stranger sitting at the foot of my bed. Dad worked nights, and the shape was much too masculine to be my mother or sister. At 12:34 AM there weren’t many possibilities that didn’t involve me being robbed, hurt, murdered or all of the above. The man was shrouded in darkness as he turned his head to look at me. I dared not scream. What if my mom or sister came running in and he hurt them too? No. This man I’d have to face alone.
Reluctantly, I reached over to my nightstand and clicked on a lamp. The cast caught the man’s features just right for me to see. I let a sigh of relief. It was only Hitler. I must’ve been dreaming.
Lucid dreams don’t typically run in my family, least of all with me. I’m usually a slave to the midnight machinations of my mind. So this was...definitely new.
“Hayyy,” I mumbled awkwardly. “Wattup, dawg?”
“How dare you call me a dog!” he barked, his accent heavy. “Is that how you address your Fuhrer?”
“Relax, dude. It’s just an expression. What, uh...what are you doing here? You realize you’re in the bedroom of a fifteen-year-old girl at midnight. It’s kinda’ weird. I’d kinda’ like an explanation for that, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“I’m as confused as you are. I’ve heard our dimension occasionally collides with yours, leaving us partially perceivable to the living. But it’s never happened to me before. This is amazing! I have finally found a means to communicate with your kind. The intersections are said to commonly last five, ten minutes. I...I have so many questions. I can’t waste time with this—young as you are, you’ll have to do!”
“This is a weird dream,” I mumbled. “Okay, Hannah, you can wake up any time now.”
“What is my legacy?” he asked, a nervousness in his eyes. “It almost pains me to know. History is never kind to those who lose. But I suppose ignorance would be twice the torture. I’ve marinaded in it for years.”
“Well. They made a few movies about you. Like, films, picture shows.”
“Dare I ask?”
“I didn’t watch it, but there’s this one American film from the ’40s, The Devil With Hitler. Cinema Snob reviewed it, pretty much play-by-play. They took a few creative liberties.”
“How creative?”
“You got shot in the butt with a missile and died.”
“Well, I’m glad they kept it dignified.”
“Pretty sure this was before your actual...yanno’. So maybe they were just hoping,” I shrugged. “Another one was called They Saved Hitler’s Brain. Didn’t watch it. Watched the Snob review. It looked...fairly terrible.”
“Did I get any good films?”
“Well, Tarantino made a good one in that it’s well made. But it still hates your guts.”
“Let me guess. Another missile?”
“Nah. You’re just machine-gunned to pulp and your bullet-ridden corpse gets blown up afterward.”
“Glad he had mercy.”
“But a lot of people die in that movie. It’s not just exclusive to you. Mercy in a Tarantino movie is like a needle in a haystack.”
“I see,” he glanced around at the sketches hung on my wall. “You are an artist?”
“Unofficially. I’m terrified to commit. Those art snobs can be vicious.”
“They know nothing!” he exploded (metaphorically, unlike in the Tarantino movie). “You could vomit on a canvas and they’d call it fine art. I applied for the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna twice and they rejected me on both counts. My art had promise. Even as a foolish child I knew that. But they...they couldn’t see. I needed a hand up, and they smacked mine away.”
“Things would’ve been a lot better if you became an artist. That’s for sure.”
“Is that what passes for art nowadays?” he looked at the laptop screen, where I was now scrolling through images for kawaii.
“Pretty much. It ain’t bad.”
“Ain’t bad? These supposed people don’t even look like people. The proportion is all off. The eyes take up half the head. Like a terrifying beast pulled from the depths of a nightmare.”
“Oh, that’s just anime. They’re not meant to look realistic. That’s the design.”
“The beast, it stares into my soul...” he shuddered.
“Huh. Maybe I’m just desensitized.”
“What are you eating with?” his eyes found the salad on my nightstand, and the curious utensil resting up top.
“Oh, this? It’s only the greatest invention ever conceived by man. It’s called a spork.” I grabbed it and brandished it enthusiastically.
“Someone combined...a spoon and a fork? Do you Americans not consider this an abomination? You’re crossbreeding utensils!”
“Nah. We think it’s cool. Some think it’s pretty useless; but you have naysayers with everything.”
“Get it out of my sight,” he growled, receding into the corner with a strange hiss.
I pulled the nightstand drawer open, paused for dramatic effect, and dropped it in.
“The spork was invented by Germany,” I muttered under my breath.
“WHAT?!”
“Just kidding.”
“What is that!”
“Oh, sorry. Clicked the wrong link. We didn’t need to see that. DeviantArt has a lot of...deviancy.”
“Degenerate swine.” He pressed further into the corner. More strange hissing.
“I wouldn’t take it that far. Though that was pretty gross. Gotta’ be careful when browsing the interwebs.” I paused to think. “Hey I got a paper coming up. You think you could help me out? Though, I suppose it would be in poor taste to cheat like that...so...nevermind.”
“Indeed. If you rely on being given the answers to everything you become soft in the mind, and turn into a malleable imbecile.” He hesitated. “But...we’re losing focus. What became of Germany?”
“Well, they lost, as you probably figured. They’re still around though. It’s no horrible dystopia over there, to my knowledge.”
“But Germany...doesn’t rule the world?”
“No.”
“Not even Europe?”
“Nope.”
“And my birthday isn’t celebrated as an international holiday?”
“It’s 4-20, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then yesss. But don’t ask what for. It ain’t you.”
“Hannah, is everything alright in there?” I heard a voice outside my door.
“Yeah, it’s all good,” I called back. The footsteps slowly disappeared.
“Is that your mother?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. The voice was just familiar. For a moment it almost reminded me of my own mother. She died when I was just a few years older than you. Never was my sadness more unbearable than the day of her passing.”
“I’m sorry. I guess that was part of the reason you banked so much on art school. My mom and I are really close. I can’t imagine missing that acceptance in my life, looking for it somewhere else just to get shot down at every corner. I wish someone had been a little nicer to you back then. Maybe then you wouldn’t have had to try so hard.”
He slouched in defeat. “You are wise for someone of your age. Were you alive in my time, you would’ve set a good precedent to follow. A balance of knowledge and emotional maturity. It’s admirable—” A current of static rippled over him, and his already-transparent body began to fade. “The dimensions are starting to diverge again. I won’t be able to stay here much longer. I may have another minute at most...”
“Okay,” I said. “But there’s one thing you should probably know before you leave. Two things, really.”
“What?”
I shut my laptop, and gently planted a finger above my name, first and last. My parents had gotten it personalized for me for my birthday.
His expression changed a bit when he read it.
“That’s you?”
I nodded.
“You’re...you have to be joking.”
“And I’m autistic. Aspergers. So in your book I’d be owe for two.”
For a long time, it appeared he’d lost the ability to speak. I didn’t intend it as revenge; rather to show him the people he so vehemently hated were still just that. People.
He vanished before he could get any sound out, but his expression was quite memorable.
Nothing more to do, I reached over to my nightstand, got my salad, and continued eating with my spork.
*****
And just like that, I woke up. Totally called that one. I’m sure my therapist will love when I tell her Hitler made a cameo in my latest dream. First Epstein and now this.
#fiction, #strictlyfiction, #donttrythisathome
exhalation
drag your fingertips
into the depths
of my mind
breathe your intellect
into the hidden passages,
which plead to be found
shake the color
from my bones
as the demons suckle
the surrounded
camouflaged halos
release your whispered truths
into delicate portions of
my soul
the silence
in between fragile heartbeats
desire your presence
your exhalation
is coveted
©ScriptedSilence. All rights reserved
Her Hug
Faded memories mock as they evade my shabby snare,
randomly returning strong to catch me unaware.
Fear that I had made you up in my imagination,
gripped me with a constant inescapable sensation.
Convinced that you existed, though I didn’t see you much,
enough to make me miss you more and hunger for your touch.
Intense relief and longing drip warm salt into the night,
as I suddenly recall the way it felt to hold you tight.
I could feel your love surround me from my head down to my toes,
your cheek upon my hair and then your nose upon my nose.
Yearning overwhelms me as the memory lingers strong,
and I’m unable to control it as it carries me along.
I am again, the child within, alone, without defense,
struggling to understand what isn’t making sense.
Learning to endure the ache of feelings, unexpressed,
and to hide my lonely tears when they refused to be supressed.
Feeling like I’m up against the strength of all the earth,
without the love and guidance of the one who gave me birth.
Gone, she’s gone forever, never got to say goodbye.
This child will always wonder why her mommy had to die.
At the Bottom
And I see them from a distance. And she grabs his hand and pulls him in. The music pulsing through them both in whirlwind beats. Noise exploding around them. The crowd moving to the energy. And the song that she said always makes her cry is pounding across the floor and the stage and the walls and their skin in heaving waves. And with their eyes locked on each other I can finally see who that song belonged to. And I shut my eyes to block them out. Because I’ve realized it’s not my eyes she’s searching for even when she’s lost deep in their shadowed depths. She’s only drowning in him. Always drowning in him. And she lets him pull her in his undertow.
You. Me. A Bag of Clothes.
I tucked your clothes away today. I wanted to hold them to my face and take in your scent that I loved, but it had long since faded. These clothes have not touched you in so long. I really should return them to you. Maybe mail them or drop them off at your doorstep. But a part of me wants to hold onto them for a little longer. Hold onto the memory of us, that I ended single handedly, for a while longer. Maybe use them as an excuse to see you one last time. If I still have them, I still have a chance. I still can keep you in my life.
It’s been 3 weeks since we broke up, eleven days since we last talked. It feels strange. Unreal. I feel as though we’ll text again next week. We’ll talk and hang out like nothing changed when I get back home. Now that I’m free I feel like I’m spiraling, free falling. Before I pushed you away, I used to have someone to catch me. I’m not sure if I regret it or not.
I can still feel the chill from that Friday night, my first night home since moving into college. I remember the numbness in my legs from standing rigid and still in the cold. Maybe I was a bit hasty to make my first order of business be to break up with you, but you don’t know the whole story, the thoughts and feelings that have swirled in my head over the past year. I thought it was the only thing to do, the only solution.
I sat in your car and looked down at my shoes. You knew what was coming, but couldn’t believe it actually happened. You were in disbelief, asking me why. Can’t we fix this? I’d rather try together than give up. You were angry. At some point we got out of the car. I think you told me to leave, to get out of your car, but then you followed me out. I’ve never heard you swear so much. You didn’t understand how I could love you but not be in love with you. You told me it was fucked that I was throwing away something that made me happy. You didn’t understand. I told you I wanted to feel passion, to feel sparks on my tongue and butterflies in my stomach. Your tearstained face and hoarse voice didn’t care. I can’t erase your pain from my memory. All you wanted was to convince me to stay. And I would’ve. If only I hadn’t kissed someone else.
I remember your last grimace at me from that night. You started to drive away, then stopped and rolled down your window. I can’t remember what you said, something like “Do me a favor and don’t do this to anyone else,” or “Have a nice life.” This wasn’t what I wanted. I never wanted to end in ashes like this. I got into my car (parked a couple spots away in the high school parking lot) and drove home, exhausted and drained of tears. My Mom was home waiting for me, and I recounted what happened, flooding the tear gates again. I slept in my parents’ bed that night, wearing an oversized, football sweatshirt and baggy basketball shorts that did not belong to me. I needed the comfort.
I awoke from sleep and the first thing I felt was guilt. Wave after wave it haunted me, and haunts me still, threatening to drown me. I wore the tears on my face like war paint, surrendering to defeat. This war was doomed from the start. I looked like a girl ravaged by the wilderness but didn’t feel remorse, for I put myself there. Wearing your clothes like a cell, I hereby punished myself for the next 1000 years.
A day went by without any contact from you. I thought the silence would tame the torment inside. It didn’t. I thought maybe journeying to the eye of the hurricane would weather the storm. That Sunday, we agreed to meet again, in another parking lot.
We walked on the bike path, our hands in our pockets, shuffling along at a respectable distance from each other. It felt strange, out of habit, our bodies wanted to walk close to one another. As if on auto-pilot, our paths started to veer towards each other, but then we’d catch ourselves and right our courses. You were much calmer than the angry flame you were last time. This time, you were cold and closed off. And yet, you still tried. You still begged for me back. It crushed me seeing you in pieces.
We sat down on that bench and you planted a kiss on my lips, hoping to make me see that this was the way things should be. But still, as it has been for the second half of our relationship, I felt nothing. And with defeat, you put your head in my lap, looking for comfort from the one who hurt you. It devastated me, and still does.
“We’re not going to be close like we were. We can’t be friends.”
“I know,” My lower lip quivered. More tears came.
Neither of us wanted to leave. We stood there, stalling; hugging each other for what we thought to be the last time. “You know why this is so hard to leave right?” you tried again. “You don’t want to. You know this is wrong. We’re supposed to be together.” I just sadly shook my head. Again, we said goodbye, but this time it was one I could stomach. You were nicer. You said you wanted to be mean but you couldn’t because it was me and you loved me. Again, I watched you go, second guessing what I had done.
That weekend was long. I didn’t leave the house. I barely ate. I felt like I didn’t deserve to. When I went to leave for school, gingerly I laid your garments on my bed, as if to monumentalize, commemorate your memory, like some sort of martyr. But I couldn’t turn around and leave them behind like I did to you, so I snatched the clothes back up, taking my ghosts with me, holding them close to my heart.
We’re broken up hoping to fall back together again. I won’t be able to feel anything for you but I don’t want to let you go. In your eyes, all I’ve seen is lust, but elsewhere in another’s eyes, I’ve seen love. All I want is for you to have happiness, but I can’t give that to you at the expense of mine. The only comfort I have is that I know I’ll see you again, for the bag of your clothes still sits, untouched, in my car.
The Wall (first draft)
Were the room not so dark, Victoria may have seen how beautifully the curls in her hair reflected the light. How the yellow red hue played against the glass before her. The room was dark, though, and though the wall before her was made entirely of glass, no reflection was possible. She stared into it anyway, hoping as she did in her waking hours, that something would change. It hadn’t, at least not while she looked. It was only a deep blue, almost black, that never changed or faltered. Often Victoria had wondered why it was there, what purpose it served. Everything here, in the space she could move, seemed to serve a purpose but this. One small green light, fading almost imperceptibly every day, seemed to indicate some sort of lively hood, of this she was sure. It blinked, steadily, a pinprick in the darkness. She felt it was talking to her, without sound, a desperate plea that wanted what she wanted and knew what that might be. Should anything happen, she was not sure she could resist the temptation to pursue the meaning of this light. Tim, she called it. She felt, she knew Tim’s purpose.
But not this wall. Through its sheer immensity and darkness, it perplexed her. In fact, within the inner reaches of her mind she could hear herself say that it caused her fear. But she knew, living with it, that she must face it. So she did, in all of her waking hours she willed it to change. Looking on, forever.
The silence was broken, by a low monstrous moan. Formless syllables lined the deep groaning of a material beyond her comprehension. It belied forces that could crush something so fragile as her, were she to face it. Eyes widening, she looked up at something that seemed to be all around her, pounding her chest and fighting with her heartbeat for dominance in the forefront of her mind. And after seconds that seemed a lifetime, it was gone and she was left alone with the beating and churning of her organs.
Suddenly she was aware of her body, of her inner workings. That she was functioning, and through that she reflected this vessel she rode upon. She wondered what it looked like, how this outcropping or the next could be put to use. She reached up and grabbed her ear, and even in her tiny hand it seemed delicate. Was she, delicate? Or was it a perception induced by the unknown comparison of things similar to her? Desperately she wished to look upon herself, to know if, at the very least, she was as aesthetically pleasing as she believed.
Her thoughts disappeared quickly, with a discipline honed by an eternity absent of distractions. Thoughts like that, wishes, like that, would do nothing. Her thoughts clear she returned to her task, perhaps, she thought, her purpose for being here. To win over The Wall, should that be the end of it, or her, or anything at all, she didn’t know. She only knew that nothing had changed, so she looked.
Hours would pass before she would rest, and before the immense stamina of The Wall, she must conserve her strength. The focus that strained her quiet mind was still yet strong, and while she peered into the darkness, into silence and the unknown, she thought of Tim. She reached out, unwillingly, with thoughts of something she could not describe. She heard him clicking, the deep silence of the room making it impossible not to hear a sound made by electrons moving from one wire to the next. Maybe, she thought, I don’t speak his language. Perhaps this clicking is a desperate struggle to be understood, an almost silent plea to give unto her the knowledge she sought of The Wall. Perhaps Tim was not named so, but possessed a name belonging to a language she could not hear or imagine.
If It were so, it was sad. He persisted, perhaps for her benefit or to the benefit of nobody at all.
Maybe, he simply was.
It was the first time she considered such a thing, despite being here for so long. Her longing for the opposite was a physical pain she felt, not in any place in particular but in such a way it caused her to ache. A sound then, which she had not heard ever in her waking hours, brushed past her lips.
Her feet hit the floor with a solemn tone, but she ignored it. She was aware that footfalls made noise. She was not, however, aware that she could. She tried once more to create it, trying to force lungs to create a breath only those who had known physical struggle could provide. But she could feel it, moving within her throat. She tried pursing lips unfamiliar with the task, and flexing a throat never flexed. It was exhausting.
Wondering if it was in her head, she sat down, her attention drawn completely away from the wall. Inwardly she knew, that she was unfocused and that in this moment the wall was winning whatever downward spiral of a struggle they were in, but she did not care. The possibility of any new element was something her unexposed mind simply could not ignore. Hours passed.
She awoke in the place she had been sitting, as she did every time her consciousness returned. She got up slowly and felt her throat, the pain there was almost insignificant in everything but the fact that it was there. She had felt pain before, long before, when she did not know the dimensions of her universe. But this, she felt, was proof of the anomaly she had experienced. But how? How did that occur, she mused as she rose, moving to her left, to a wall she had defeated. Her hand ran down its flawless surface in a usual and practiced manner of searching for new elements, anything she could hold over The Wall she now fought. Though as it had time and time again, the frail light that Tim provided only reassured her that this wall was simply that, a wall. Nor were the next two she searched, carefully running her hands down each surface, taking extra care to circle Tim with her index finger in a way that could be said to contain love.
Her routine, if it could be said to be one, complete, she collapsed into the chair exhausted. The frail atrophied body she possessed done with its physical labors for the day. Hours passed, most of what could be called her day even, as she half-heartedly continued her dispute with her nemesis. She felt discontent for the first time ever. It had always been simple. There was The Wall, and there was her. One would win, eventually, through circumstances that had yet to be seen. She could not know how she or it would win, but-
Was it the wall? Is it trying something new?
A new feeling emerged as she felt her face grow hot, and were she aware of any color but Tim she would know her face flushed red with anger.
Have you stooped so low as to harm me?
She stood, furious. She had never felt these things before, but she felt empowered. Her limbs which had never known strength quivering with the adrenaline fueled rage of a titan.
You bastard! She screamed internally, approaching it with a raised fist. Two can play at that game, TWO CAN-
Her weight shifted against her will, and it seemed gravity increased. The long, powerful roar of the material encapsulating her bellowed in her heart and mind. Her legs nearly buckling, her hand melting from its iron state.
No, she thought. No I… this isn’t… I’m sorry I took it to far I’m sorry I-
Her weight shifted against her will once more, her legs buckling and sending her towards the wall at speeds she had never known. Her head clashed, with a deathly hollow sound, against the entity she called The Wall, and again with the floor, and her consciousness faded as she thought at Tim to save her.
He answered, unfaltering, as he always had, as everything faded to black.
She awoke, blinded, and thought that this was the end. The Wall had won with its powerplay, and she had fallen right into its plans. She struggled to get up, to see, and slowly it came to her. She saw Tim, in front of her, dead it seemed. His joyous and unfaltering signs of life had finally faltered, and he was gone.
She wept silently at the loss of the only thing she had ever enjoyed. Great waves of fluid rushed from her eyes and blinded her once more to her surroundings, and she was alone in the darkness. She was, she realized, still within her world, her knowledge. She looked at the wall, her body racked by silent waves of grief. Her body dragged behind her as she made a desperate attempt to reach it, so that she could give in. Take me, she thought, you’ve bested me, and I cannot go on knowing so. END IT, I…
Her words faded in her mind, wiped of all anger or sorrow as the wall responded. She looked on as it began to change. She looked and realized how close she was, inches from it, and she began to see. The Wall was merciful? The change began to grow. The deep blue of the abyss was changing, into a thing of light, the color shifted brighter and brighter until she could see things beyond her ability to describe them. They moved naturally through the abyss, paying no mind to her. She gaped in awe as she saw a new thing.
It was beautiful, she thought, as she looked. It was soft and kind, dotted with light brown flecks against a pale white background. A red, soft line, sat below some sort of structure protruding from the silky canvas, both equally as beautiful and curvaceous as the rest. Two small, embedded globes of white contained the prettiest thing she had ever seen, circles of emerald encasing a small black sphere. She felt sadness, and the liquid pouring down her face as she was reminded of her loss, and saw liquid pouring from it, as well.