Self Disposal (Short Story)
Dawn, again. It always comes, creeping up on me in the most sinister of manners. As if it knows I'm fading in and out of reality and am just now considering the embrace of my bed. The sun, and its desire to thwart me, me in particular. It knows my plans, it knows how desperately I need that blissful oblivion that lies within exhausted sleep. It knows how painstakingly I set about to bring my body to the point of collapse so that sleep could be taken, enjoyed even.
The sun, its light pierces through the darkness of my room. Even the shutters don't mask its rays. Staggered beams make patterns on my wall. I can only stare at them with the detached admiration that hits you in such exhaustion. The golden lines slowly creep downwards, until they slow to not moving at all. They rest upon the pictures of past memories, pictures which no longer hold any joy. Staring, eyes bore into me, and I stare back. I'm not sure if I care any more, one way or another. I got my answer, and only the oblivion of sleep would make this more bearable. I don't know what happened, those eyes just got to much for me to bear, and I became focused on my hands.
They're really quite amazing, aren't they? Bones connected by flesh and muscle, making something that can do so much. Hands, they can hurt you can't they? Somehow, that made me chuckle. Yeah, I had strong hands, large for my size, they looked like a mannequin's limbs, exaggerated bone structure slightly larger than life, attached to these simple arms. I'm sure it would help if I was more muscular, but my hands do their thing. Long fingers stroke instruments, hold paintbrushes. Ah, yes, painting. I had to look up again, past the eyes, up to the topmost beam of light that cast a golden brown hue to the air. Up to a painting.
I'm not sure why I made it really, or why I like it. Its really just a whole bunch of colours slapped together to make an image. Bold colour, vibrant colour, pops out of the frame as if its ready to leap into your soul. Maybe that's why I like it, its in your face, telling you to do something with your life, telling you to be someone. I don't really care why I made it. It was the product of music played way too loud, and some sort of indescribable emotion. Its perfectly irrelevant. What matters, is that its there, and its telling me to do something. I suppose that's what the pictures are doing. Telling me to do something. Well fine then dammit. I'll do something.
I surged to my feet and stumbled forward a little, the dizzy head rush overwhelming my senses for a moment. But the eyes were still there, I could feel them, my hands could feel them, ink on a page, slightly raised as only my favourite printers do. Not for much longer. The sound of ripping paper was too-loud in the silence of the room. The corners covered in tape ripped unevenly, sometimes only leaving me with a straight strip of nothing and I have to try again. So much to destroy, so much for my hands to do. Until it was over, too soon, too soon. Looking down at the floor, the eyes stare back up at me, and all I can do is smile. Irony, sweet succulent irony. Now the sun illuminated jagged strips of paper and tape scattered across an empty wall crowned by that splash of colour.
Perhaps my actions were rash, perhaps they were unwarranted. I didn't really care. All I could do was sink to the floor and once again curse the sun. It was too bright, in my eyes, demanding my consciousness. I didn't want to oblige, but what can you do when bright light shines so indefinitely into your eyes?
With a sputtered cough of the engine, the car turns off, taking the light with it. Plunged into darkness, finally, I can sleep.