September 16, 2005

No Language of His Own

One evening late, there was a man alone in a room, surrounded by books. Waiting. He was trying to fall asleep but it wasn’t working. He kept thinking of horrible things. He kept coming up with gruesome ideas, and imagining grisly scenes so ghastly and suspicious that he knew if someone listened they would hear his thoughts, and hate him for it.

He believed that he was not abhorrent, and that his thoughts at least, were not the rankest. But to prove the point he had to have another thought made worse. It was awful, to say the least, and plainly to state the obvious. His phone rang but he couldn’t answer it. He didn’t dare. It might’ve been . . .

He had all sorts of graceless conjecture. But who knows? It was a difficult predicament. And he was afraid. And it was dark. And in his room he felt like a dog. He hated all the things he’d been told to say and do. He was ashamed of the things he’d thought about saying and doing, but hadn't. And then, like grass, a noise began.

“You can’t unsay something, can you?” he wondered.

He had no language of his own. There was no need to speak. He was alone, as I said. Craving. Unmoving almost, still protected by his books. The noise began again, "I'm glad I could get through to you."

And then nothing.

From: "Dead Technology Play"