Scott: Theme Writing: Moving Day

Mike and I were talking not too long ago, discussing a story that Mike had shared. The conversation eventually moved to the topic of death, and the way in which each person copes with the experience of it. We decided on a quick theme for the day: exploring the changes that occur in the human psyche when a person sees someone killed in front of them. It may sound morbid, but I think its an interesting examination of the fragility of the mind. Humans are an amazing species, but not without their chinks in the armor...

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The water flowed out of the shower-head in a tight stream. Nathan leaned his head back and closed his eyes, allowing the cascade to hit him in the face. His breath was slow, tentative. the warm water rushed across his face and down his chest, back and arms and Nathan began to let his mind wander. His focus moved in and out: now on the water running hotly across his body; Now on the feeling of the tiled floor at his feet; Now on the water striking his face - hard, hot, almost sharp.

Nathan opened his eyes, and his head instinctively darted around. Glass filled the air, still reverberating from the impact; slicing through the air like incandescent daggers. Fireflys in the night.

Nathan started. He threw himself back quickly, and knocked his head against the wall of the shower, at the same time, blindly reaching and pulling the shower curtain down from its rings.

Now aware of himself, he cursed out loud, and threw the shower-curtain aside onto the floor. Then, quietly, he wrapped his arms around his legs, placed his head down, and cried.

Squinting through a red haze, blood running into his eyes from the cuts on his face, Nathan looked to his right. Into Maggie's eyes. Her mouth shivered lightly, and her hand twitched, her arm trying desperately to reach for him.

Pushing against the side of the shower, Nathan forced himself up and over, moving awkwardly into the wheelchair that sat empty next to the discarded curtain. Mechanically, he dried his body off and reached for his boxers. Sliding back and forth in his wheelchair, Nathan slowly slid them up and around his waist, he looked over at a pair of jeans, and, with visible disgust, ignored them. He did not look into the mirror.

Nathan's face streamed with tears. He reached for Maggie's hand and took it into his own. Her eyes followed his face, and he demanded that she stay awake; demanded that she stay with him.

Slowly, he wheeled himself out of the bathroom, and through the hall. Boxes, some half filled and others taped closed, lined all corners of the apartment, stacked neatly in various corners. When he approached the living room, he rolled to a stop. Samantha stood in the room, rifling through the various odds and ends left on the floor. She turned to greet him warmly, then held up a small framed painting, an explosion of colors and textures pressed behind glass and locked inside a wooden frame.

She tapped the glass encouragingly "Didn't you paint this before, Nathan? It's really good, why do you want to get rid of it?"

Maggie's eyes focused completely on Nathan's own. He watched her, with supreme effort, squeeze his hand with her own. blood trickled down the corners of her mouth, and she coughed briefly. Nathan tried to speak, tried to scream, but could not, his voice choked back with emotion. Maggie smiled weakly, and her hand stopped squeezing Nathan's.

Nathan looked at the painting, then let his eyes drop; he stared off into nothing for only a moment.

"I don't paint anymore."