January 8, 2008
He liked his room. It was warm and pleasant-smelling because he always made sure the thermostat was set just so, and he changed the potpourri at least once a month. The walls were a pale, pale blue, and the color they turned when the weak winter sunlight streamed in from the high, curtainless windows was his favorite color in the world.
What he liked best about his room, though, was that no one bothered him and he was free to sit and rock quietly in his upholstered chair and think.
The first thing he thought about was tea and whether he should get up and make some. Then he remembered that his friend Josh was coming over in half an hour and was bringing tea and crumpets made from a secret family recipe. He was a little thirsty, and his stomach was starting to remind him that lunch had been a whole three hours ago, but he stayed in his chair, rocking and waiting. It was only polite to wait for a friend as good as Josh, after all.
Thus, he thought some more to make the 28 minutes until Josh's visit pass more quickly.
Seemingly out of nowhere at all, he remembered a face that had something peculiar about it, but he forgot about it almost as soon as he had remembered it. Someone — a someone who he remembered made him feel indescribably wonderful — someone once told him she liked him alive and lucid, and that he had better stay that way for her sake if not for his own. It felt like ages ago, and he could not remember her name.
It bothered him for many minutes, until he heard a knock and sluggishly got up to answer the door, still half-buried in pondering.
No matter. Someone else once told him that he always did things in half-measures.
My stomach churns with dread as I walk toward my certain demise. I'm not even dressed properly for the occasion. I doubt anyone went to their execution dressed in pajamas and sneakers. The austere woman eyes me disapprovingly as she hands me my papers. The hard, red line of her mouth and her slightly furrowed eyebrows say, "I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't even brush your teeth. You certainly didn't even bother getting dressed."
I reply with a smile, the sunniest and most apologetic one I can muster, trying to convey that I was running late, that lateness would have been unacceptable and that I did brush my teeth but I almost didn't because breakfast seemed more important than hygiene for a moment.
I clutch my papers nervously, wondering how long the agonizing anticipation would draw on before we started, and I could finally get on with dying. Would my mother read a eulogy for me at my funeral, or would she be too ashamed to bother?
The austere woman glances at the door, sighs and glances at her watch. "Let's begin, shall we?"
Four hours later, I am running through doors of steel and glass to the asphalt plains of freedom. I am alive, more alive than I have ever been. I slide easily into the car, and my mother makes a big deal of how she waited 10 whole minutes for me to finish my battle with the witch of Maria Agnesi. I finish by nonchalantly informing her that I'm calling in sick to work and taking the rest of the day off to bask in the glory of surviving the most important and nerve-wracking ordeal that I had ever gone through in my entire (admittedly short) life.
A president once said, "The Bank wants to kill me, but I will kill it!" Although I never truly appreciated him the way I appreciate George Washington or Abraham Lincoln, I feel as if I truly understand him and especially the passion he devoted to killing the Bank.
After all, the Scholastic Aptitude Test wanted to kill me, but I have killed it.
Long, thin fingers assaulted and caressed the ivory keys, giving form to a composition that was tempestuous and tranquil at turns. Below the pianist, in an environment far removed and too horrific to be fathomed by the minds of those in society, life raged on, sometimes sedately, but more often than not, wildly and overwhelmingly.
A few times, the fingers stilled, stroking the keys contemplatively, at a loss for how to continue. During these times, on the stage of the world, the play would stop and the actors' gestures would halt in midair, as if frozen in place.
Always, the pianist would continue again, finishing the movement hurriedly as inspiration struck, and then moving on to the next one, composing and playing simultaneously and spontaneously.
In a different time and a different place, a war ended and the people moved on to fight the next one.
When the pianist tired of pounding away and lovingly lowered the lid over the keyboard, everything ceased to be.
