Ten-Minute Story – I only have ten minutes before I have to get dressed and go to class.

April 11, 2008 at 9:30 am (Skrifa) (, , )

“Sing to me, Montag, of the pain you have suffered.”

I respond, “Oh, oh, no, not that, it wasn’t like that,” and a woman across the bed hears me, but because I’m sleeping it sounds like, “Oh, oh, oh, not not not that, no.”

I wrap myself in the bedclothes. “Montag,” it calls. I refuse it. I say, “Go away.” The woman shakes me, but she can’t wake me up.

I dream of food. When I wake up, my belly is bloated with hunger and piss. I brush the woman off, direct my cramping feet to the toilet. “Montag,” it says.

I get myself some tea. I stare at the knives. “Tell me of your pain, Montag,” it says.

“I have no pain! My life is fine! My life is happy! Go away!”

The woman comes into the kitchen, fully dressed. She refuses tea, and leaves. She heard me clearly this time. I told her I sometimes have over-reaching dreams. She leaves anyway. I leave after she does, to get away from the flat.

“Montag.”

I have formulated a theory, that my genes are faulty, that there is something so wrong with my DNA that my subconscious has been recruited against me. My life is happy, I am young, artistically fulfilled, academically successful. I have my dream career, a lovely flat. I’m saving up for retirement. This is not the hollow emptiness of consumerism. I am full. I am a heavy stone, squatting comfortably in a river.

It calls me. “Montag.” Unceasingly. Fine, I’ll kill myself, just to shut you up.

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