Tuesday, January 9, 2018

The Numbers Inside of Us

(Shelby Farms - 2014 - Kimberly B. Richardson)

I'm not afraid anymore. I know he's dead. He closed his eyes and went to sleep; at least, that's what they told me. I wanted him to stop suffering and, well . . . . this room is so empty. No pictures of him, no artwork that he liked. He was not a lover of the arts - that was my job. I was the artsy one. I could see colours. He only saw newspapers and numbers. Always numbers. Lined up one by one, bright green flashing all over the place. Some called him crazy but I knew better. He was simply himself. After we placed him in the ground among the legions of the dead, I decided to take a long walk through a forest. I wasn't afraid anymore. As I walked through the trees, I heard his slow and somber voice. Always telling me how sad he was and that he refused to close his eyes. He claimed that the darkness seduced him. He never wanted to give in to that darkness. He wanted to lay next to me in bed and eat popcorn while reading a book. I kissed him on the nose and sighed. I looked at the clouds that hung low in the sky. Did Heaven truly exist, or was there some sort of Purgatory instead? A blank grey with no beginning and end while the dead shuffle around? Ceaseless mumbling about nothing. How they lived their lives. How they regretted not telling that one woman that they loved her. How they should have taken that trip to Uruguay. That one lost kiss. That one chance to do right. I hoped he was not in that, mumbling about his damn numbers and not about his life. I walked on and sighed. He loved me, I think. I know I loved him. Always numbers. An empty room filled with numbers that he could never touch.

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