Short Story: Stolen Moment

I have never been good with reality. Sometimes, I feel like I’m not present, as if I’m snuggled behind my thoughts. Yet my thoughts are never of great importance. Just observations of everything and nothing. Then there are the periods I lose time or the time stands still for me. On those occasions, when the time is still, I feel most free. But I never get to stay at those moments. Reality has a way of sneaking in, and the time has to tick.

The harsh reminder is the bruises on my hands and legs. I’m never sure how they got there. There they are after the frozen moments, after I have tip-toed around everything and everybody and headed out to watch the birds frozen mid-air. I carefully walk past the people stuck in their positions and head into the park at the end of the lane where I live. At first, when the time slips off, I’m just there, fighting the eerie void of silence suffocating me, but then I remember that with silence, I’m the only one who exists. I cherish those moments when the breeze gets stuck in the leaves, the grass turns needle-sharp, and the gravel doesn’t move under my feet. In those endless hours, I get to observe every tiny speck of the world, sitting on my favorite bench at the park. It’s like the world is clued to the spot. Every leaf feels as heavy as a bowling ball; every foot holds its balance; no one needs to cry or laugh.

Sometimes, I entertain the thought that I could stretch those moments into eternity and walk past the park and the small town where I live. From the books, I know that there’s a vast world beyond the factory chimneys and the bleak grey concrete walls of my neighborhood. Yet I never do that. Maybe I’m too scared to stay forever in the endless stillness, or I know reality holds great importance to others, so it has to hold that for me, too. Or it is the hunger that drives me back to my room to stay really, really still and quiet.

I watch the bruises on my arms and feel the ache in my belly. I curl into a tight ball on the floor and hear my father and mother shouting at each other. The ache makes me want to disappear again, but I push past it. There has to be a day after another. Life works that way, and in stillness, there’s just death. Whenever I say these things aloud in school, my teachers look at me funnily. I have learned to keep my mouth shut. But sometimes, I want to ask someone to tell me if I will break reality if I move things and others around when the time stops. Can I make Johnny run farther and faster away from this place if I nudge him a little? Will Clarence from the next door over learn to play his guitar if I add helpful comments on his notes? Will my mother finally leave if I drag her into the car with our suitcases full? But I never ask. I just stay really, really still.

Thank you for reading. Have a lovely day ❤

P.S. It feels so good to be able to write this short story in one sitting again after a long pause. Writing short stories always makes the time flow in strange ways, making my mind feel giddy. This one was inspired by a book cover, Someone Like Me by M.R. Carey. I was trying to find something to read and came across that book. Okay, the story has nothing to do with the book’s synopsis and cover, but my mind jumped into that picture of a woman with two versions of her, and this one came about.