The Crack
"My life wasn't for the faint of heart," the decrepit old man said after I sat down on the table in front of him. The room in front of me was as black as the stormy night outside. His features were dark and indistinct in the blackness as his raspy voice carried, barely a whisper, between the thunder that rattled the bullet proof glass between us. However, even if the darkness held his features, I knew exactly what he looked like. Everything that was visible was scarred by either bullets or sharp objects except for his eye sockets . His eyes were cut out of his skull a few years ago. I still remembered what the warden said about it, "He is spending his whole life in that room, so what good are his eyes."
"Tell me about the house," I demanded
"Is that all you want?" he asked with dark enticement.
"Isn't that it?" I queried, my interest peaked.
"There is always more to a story," he whispered, bitterness in his voice.
"Then tell your story."
"It's a long one."
"I have time."
"Ok but remember it wasn't for the faint of heart," he said while shifting his weight for the first time since I came in.
"It all began on June 24, 1989. It was an uneventful day spent in my room. Allowing no room for disagreement, my parents had sent me there without explanation. So I played with some toys but, being eleven, they couldn’t hold my attention for long, and boredom soon asserted its all encompassing block. Once every imaginable activity had dried up, I ended up sprawled on my bed gazing at the ceiling for hours. I stared at that ceiling just to pass the time but my eyes started drifting towards something. A thin, spidery black line that stretched across the blank canvas of my ceiling. It surprised me that I never saw it before.”
As the minutes ticked on I heard birds singing their wonderful tune but my attention never wavered. After a while a thought dawned upon me. Difference is life. It was a strange thought but it seemed right. Everything does have differences so doesn’t that make it different than everything else. I mean, aren't we supposed to be different so this way we can tell we are alive. As my thoughts continued, my eyes closed and I was carried into my unconsciousness. Before I opened my eyes, I heard my mother’s sweet voice over me calling for dinner but when my eyes opened I didn’t see her.
All I saw was black above beams of wood and old wooden walls in my peripherals. I quickly sat up and looked around at the new room I was in. I was in a wooden room on a king or queen sized white canopy bed with black drapes, to my left was a bedside table with a lamp on it, to the right was a wooden chair next to a black window, and at the end of the bed was a golden 2 door wardrobe with a mirror in the middle, and two people sitting at the end of the bed looking at their reflection.
