World (2 page)

But the sniffling continued.

Stoppit.

A light switch snapped. Yellow light
flickered in from the hall.

Peter flinched.

The light poked at the corner of his eye
from the corner around which the black sleeve had disappeared.
Infuriatingly soft and dim, it was worse than no light at all. The
darkness inside the room was better. The dim yellowness on his
periphery irritated his eyes, his head, even worked his way down to
his stomach and made him want to be sick. He turned towards the
doorway and squinted in the unnatural light.

The shadows in the hallway did not
notice.

Elbows rested on crossed arms, heads bent,
hands fidgeted, fluttering lips whispered. Clustered in the soft
light, the shadows worried.

"I
miss
him."

"I know..."

"I don't know... I don't know."

Stoppit.

Peter grit his teeth against the whispering,
as if that could silence it. It didn't. The whisperers didn't go
away and Peter fought the urge to put his fingers in his ears like
a child. He turned away from the light and the shadows and the
mutterers outside the door. He thought about getting up to shut the
door, but that would just prompt more whispering, more
head-shaking.

He unclenched his teeth and tried to ignore
the yellow light and the whispers.

There were things to do.

Things like traps.

Traps opened
everywhere.

Eyes were watching everywhere, watching
where they shouldn't. Tyrants lurked in the clouds, lurking over
shade where people cowered. Thieves lurked around corners.

There were
always
things to
do.

Peter rubbed the crust of sleepiness out of
his eyes. A warm, no-longer-fizzy drink beckoned from his desk,
just by his right hand. He grabbed it and sipped and stretched his
eyes wider against stubborn, heavy lids. And he ignored the
whispers.

There was a trap in Borneo, a dark cloud
hovering somewh–

Peter paused.

The sleeve was back.

Eyes still on Borneo, he tried to focus on
the problem at hand. But the sleeve danced on his periphery and he
watched the movement out of the corner of his eye, the black fabric
over the veiny hand, over the fidgeting nails.

Black, always black like mourning clothes,
the sleeve flickered around the door again. But then it was gone,
and the whispers followed.

"I don't know... I don't know."

Stoppit.

And this time, they did.

The mourning clothes and the whisperers
inside them moved down the hallway. The whispers faded.

The light switch snapped again.

The yellow light disappeared.

The hall was silent, and the room, too –
both now blessedly dark. Alone now, Peter shook his head.

I know, I know.

They were so sad!

He'd tried to tell them –
tried and
tried
– to tell them not to be. There was nothing to be sad
about – nothing! Not in
that
hallway anyway. There were traps and spies and
thieves and tyrants (didn't they cause enough grief?) But not
in
that
hallway.
Not in
that
dark
room. Not
there.
The whisperers weren't sad about that anyway.

But they
were
sad.

They put on sad faces and
walked around looking at the ground and sniffled and muttered and
were sad anyway.  

The light flicked on again.

The sleeve, the tapping fingers, the
whispers were back.

"Good night."

Peter looked up.
"Good–"

But the hall was empty. The whisperer was
gone.

Good night.

He took another sip of the no-longer fizzy
drink.

Sleep...
whispered a tiny voice in Peter's head.
Sleep...

He shook the voice off.

They
could sleep. The whisperers in the black mourning-like
clothes.
They
didn't see the thieves lurking in the shadows and tyrants
looming in the clouds and spies watching around each corner (even
though they worried as if they did!)

They could sleep.

The world didn't.

And neither did Peter.

The light switch in the hall clicked one
more time and the infuriatingly soft and dim light disappeared.

And he was alone again.

The dark room clicked.

It tapped in time with his fingers, speaking
the world, tapped in time to the messages coming and going, coming
and going, coming and going – messages between friends, between
enemies, between strangers. (Sometimes even between the thieves and
tyrants and spies and traps (but these didn't speak back.))
Sometimes it tapped in time with codes, unreadable mysteries sent
between initiates. Sometimes it tapped in time with some language
or another, and sometimes a rough translations.

The dark room glowed, too.

It glowed, not like the hallway glowed. Not
a dingy, yellow glow like old teeth. Not a dim sheen that
illuminated the cracks and divots on painted walls. It glowed a
clean glow. Bright. Sharp. A glow that illuminated the whole world
- it was beautiful!

The room whirred a little sometimes, too. It
puffed and chimed and spoke, too. And sometimes it sang.

But not now.

Now it was quiet.

They were
so
sad!

He'd tried to tell them –
tried and
tried
–
to tell them not to be. But they were. They
missed
him. They peaked around the
door and snuck sidelong glances in from the hallway. They whispered
like he wasn't there.

But he was there.

Still there, there in the
dark room. He tried to tell them. Still
there.

They
worried
about him. They tapped
agitated fingers against protruding knuckles. They wrung their
hands. They folded their arms, leaned their heads in and consoled
each other. They whispered like he was in his last days.

But he was safe.

Safe in the dark room,
watching dangers from afar, setting traps for the traps, putting
eyes on the eyes, lurking over the lurking tyrants. He was safe. He
was there.

Safe.

Alive.

Peter squinted in the dark.

His brow creased so deep it ached. He
squinted in the clear glow. Borneo squinted back. He shook his head
and looked away. There were traps closer to home, too.

He rubbed his tired eyes, took another sip
of the no-longer-fizzy drink and hunched up reflexively.

He worried about the
whisperers. He worried about them as much as they worried about
him.

A drop of the
no-longer-fizzy drink slid down the empty can. The last drop. One
hand reached down below the desk, pulled out another.
Pffft.
He sipped the
drips bubbling up over the opening. Warm, too, this one was, but
still fizzy. He squinted and hunched forward, as if that could
bring him closer to the target, closer to the danger closer to
home.

He tried – tried and tried – to tell them it
was important. They worried about the wrong things! But they didn't
hear. They shook their heads and rolled their eyes and whispered
like he couldn't hear them.

He could.

He tried to tell them that
the darkness didn't make him deaf. He listened. He heard. But they
didn't. They bent their heads and tapped their agitated fingers and
crossed their arms and whispered as if he couldn't see
them.

He could.

He tried to tell them he
could see them, too. He could see the light, the shadows, the
agitated, tapping fingers around the corner under the dark, sad
sleeves. The light didn't make them invisible. He wanted to look up
and tell them he could see.

But they didn't look back.

And they whispered to each other like he
couldn't whisper back.

He could.

He tried to tell them that
the darkness hadn't made him mute. He could talk, talk
to
them. If only they
would talk to him! But they didn't.  

He tried to tell them
there were things to whisper
about,
that there were important things to worry over –
not
him
.

But they didn't know.

They didn't know this
world, not like he did.  They weren't so sure footed.
 They couldn't spot the traps and the thieves and the tyrants
and the spies.  He tried to tell them this.

He
had
to come here.

He didn't come for fun!

He came to explore.
 He came to feel out the traps and rogues.  He came to
map the wild landscape, to build roads around the traps and havens
from the thieves and tyrants and spies.

But they didn't hear.

LOL.

Peter smiled.

He didn't come here for
fun. But it was fun.

The warm drink had lost its fizziness, but
not its potency. Peter took another sip. Arms reached up towards
the ceiling, he stretched, twisted his neck right and left, looked
into the black corners, rested his eyes in the dark room.

The moon peaked through the slice between
the curtains. He watched it for a moment before turning back to the
screen.

He smiled wider.

A mother held her newborn
– red and wrinkled and crying and younger than he'd ever seen
before. And
human.

A man saw an angel.
Saved,
he said.
Saved
him, he said –
eyes sparkled and danced in fervor and conviction.

Peter smiled.

Things were okay here.

He tried – tried
and
tried
– to
tell the whisperers. In between the dangers, things were okay. He
tried to tell them when they stopped whispering. He tried to tell
them about the
things.
Things he never saw before, things he saw again, things he'd
seen but never understood, things he understood and never seen – it
was all okay.   

A soldier died
proud.

A friend met a friend.

A cat yawned.

A man had a
drink.

A girl sang.

A car crashed.

A panda
sneezed.

A revolution began.  

Then another.  Then another.

Things that were clear
here, like they weren't elsewhere.  The mother and the newborn
and the man and the angel and the soldier and the cat and the
drinking man and the singing girl and the car and the panda and the
revolution and the other revolution and the one after that: it was
all connected, connected in a way that he'd never understood
before.

And it was okay.

He could see the entire
world and everything in it and he understood.

He understood how everyone
was the same: in the same world, sneezing and drinking and singing
and crashing and revolting.  And he understood how everyone
was different: pandas and girls and drinking men and newborns and
mothers and rebels. And that was possible here.

And it was okay.

No. It was beautiful. It
was–

A snort broke the quiet.

Peter looked.

The world was
still.
That
world, anyway. The hallway, the room.
That
was still. Silent. For a moment
he watched it.

Another snort rolled through the quiet
hallway.

He sighed.

Then he turned away from
the quiet hallway and the sounds of sleep. Turned back from
that
world. Turned back
to the beautiful world where tyrants and pandas stood just a few
pixels away from each other.

But the quiet hallway
rested on his periphery. And the sounds of sleep padded on the edge
of his hearing.
That
world beckoned.

Could go back...
it whispered in the silence.

And it was right.
He
could
go back.
 Back to the whisperers, back to the sleepers.  He could
see the way back - it was not far, just through a screen. It was
easy, too, just stepping into a different glow.

He
could
go back.

He could leave the panda and the newborn and
the mother and the man and his angel, and the soldier and the cat
and the drinking man and the singing girl and the car and the
revolution and the other revolution and the one after that.

They didn't need him.

The panda and cat and newborn and mother and
the man and the angel and the drinking man and the singing girl and
the revolutions – all of them – would be just fine without him
watching.

He
could
go back.

It was only a screen.
 Only a screen between the cat and the drinking man and the
singing girl and the car and the revolutions and the soldier and
the man and his angel and the mother and her newborn and the panda
and... everything else.

Only a screen, and it could close.

It could turn
off
. Blink away in an
instant – so easy! Just different windows on the same world, and
they could close.