leamen’s

Under the Sweltering Guise of Epiphany

It couldn’t be told why he woke up in the mind he had fallen into, but he knew for certain what had happened when he found himself in full consciousness on his bed that morning. He knew he was awake.

 Obviously he was awake, he thought to himself, but this was a different type of awake. He felt more aware than he had ever felt in his life. He surely was not used to feeling this way, as up to this point in his monotonous odyssey commenced by his birth, he had felt content and at ease with the happenings around him. Now, as his brain had fully kicked into gear, he had noticed things that had always slipped his mind, making it feel like he had woken up in an entirely different room. Or even a different country. But that was improbable.

The hefty and dense cotton sheets on his bed were a dark maroon, basked in the light from the window. He had realized all too clearly that the window was far too open, and the sun’s baking gaze was far too strong. The dark color of his bed sheets had soaked up the blistering heat of the sun, causing them to turn untouchably hot. He could not believe that he had slept on such an uncomfortably burning surface. He looked down at where he had previously been lying to see a great damp spot.

It was his sweat. How disgusting.

Thinking about it, it was strange how put off he was by his own sweat. Looking at his arms, he could see more wet droplets beading his skin. In fact, he felt his skin becoming all too agonizing. He felt his skin smothering his body, trapping himself in the immense and inescapable heat. He felt sick. But it was time for his lessons, and it was no time for him to be caught up in trivialities. Yes, he thought. That’s what all this is, just small trivialities he had paid far too much attention to. He got up from his bed, touching the metal frame of his bed which had been in the sun’s field of vision for quite a long time. He reeled back in pain, burning himself on the severely hot material. Why was his bed frame metal? Who had thought it to be a grand idea? He remembered clearly now, his parents buying the metal bed frame because it was more pristine and expensive than the wooden one. Yet another trouble caused not by him, but by the hand of the authority above.

Another? What did he mean by another?

Certainly he had never felt this way before. But after some thought, he came to the conclusion that indeed, his whole life had been filled with him facing the shortcomings from the designs of those his superior. Things had always been this way, and he was baffled how he could not see what was so clear to him now. He opened his strikingly red cabinet and was glumly greeted by his thick cotton uniform. How was he to ever concentrate during lessons with such stifling attire? And atop the whole affair a wool vest? It was only nonsense for it to be necessary to wear a vest on already immensely oppressive clothing. He noticed that the gas fireplace tucked in the back of the room was still on, and remembered asking Father to leave it on for him last night. It was unbelievable how he would request such a thing in this weather. He must have been insane to not feel how he felt now in this dastardly room. Once he had gotten all of his intolerable clothing onto him, he walked out of his room and into the hallway, which unfortunately was even warmer and stuffier than his bedroom. How this could be, it was beyond him. He looked around to see the decor of the hallway. All warm colors, red mixed with yellow mixed with orange here and there. How distasteful.

  The first thing he noticed when coming down the steps was the incredibly loud washing machine, lubberly humming as it tossed the clothes around inside its metallic cavern. Someone needed to break that thing. He then sat at the table and faced his breakfast, a bowl of steaming veal soup, a classic morning meal where he was from. He turned it away, as the smell of it turned his stomach immensely. The carrots were unflatteringly small, and the peas were much too red.

Wait, peas aren’t red.

The Mother walked in and read the repulsed look on his face.

“I thought you liked that soup,” the Mother said offhandedly. It was clear that she was in a rush for work, and that she was too busy to pay much mind to his troubles. She was currently searching for something.

“How could you think that? What have I ever said that would make you think that I like this soup?” he replied in a harsher manner than he had intended, even slightly startling himself.

“Well, you’ve eaten it before,” the Mother threw back nonchalantly, supposedly not sensing the contempt in his tone.

He ruminated on this response as the air grew heavier. It was true that he had indeed eaten veal soup before, and that he enjoyed it quite a lot. He was now perplexed, feeling as if it was his mind being tumbled in the washer.

“Ah, there it is!” the Mother cheered as she had found what she was looking for. She pulled a sun yellow scarf out from under a chair and draped it hastily across her neck.

“How could you wear that on such a hot day?” he was bewildered.

The Mother looked at him as if his nose were missing, “What do you mean? It’s chilly out to me.”

How could this be? How could his Mother not feel this immense heat? How could she not feel the same way as him?

As if it could even be possible, the washing machine grew louder.

The Mother left out the front door of the house and went to work. After waiting a while by himself in the stuffy house, he too left to go to his daily lessons. Today’s lessons were to be short, only about an hour long. As he went out the door, he glanced at the deep orange sky above him, the color matching the ugly heat around him. The houses and sidewalks bathed in an orange tint from the sky, all of them having a slightly radiating atmosphere to them, while the tar black street had a blistering haze emanating from it like an octopus’s ink wavering in the sea as it slowly dissipates. The whole scene made him nauseous.

He started his walk along the street, feeling the sun beating down on his back. He looked at the neat row of houses lining the street like little soldiers, each looking identical to the other. Every window seemed to be eyes boring into him, studying his complexion, laughing at him agonizing in the suffocating heat. In fact, the whole neighborhood felt suffocating, with those smug indistinguishable houses looming over him, and the street still exuding that torrid haze onto him. He decided to pick up his pace. The thumps of his feet hit loudly on the ground, perforating his mind with each step. It was at this time that he realised that he had forgotten to put on shoes.

After what seemed like an eternity, he found himself walking into an underpass, the bridge above him towering over shade that for some reason did not give any relief from the blaze still carpeted on him. All he could think of at the moment was heat. Pure heat seemed to amplify off the walls of the underpass, cascading onto him like boulders down a hill, tumbling and tumbling and tumbling… He should snap out of it. His eyes flew around in a fit, trying to find something to ease his focus onto, anything other than his smoldering skin.

There was a small child standing by itself on the wayside, seemingly staring at him. Its face showed almost no expression, only a small hint of wonder behind its wide eyes. He took note of its eyes. They were almost purely bright red, with small flecks of orange running through them. They were objectively beautiful where he was from, but it made him nauseous just looking at them. He took into view the child’s whole face. It was immaculately defined, chiseled to the highest degree of purity, as if it were a fresh pearl in the clearest of cool water. In his opinion, the child looked horrendous. He held much disdain towards it all. Unlike all others, he much preferred the deeper and more complex brown eyes to the much revered red. It infuriated him how backwards society could think, red eyes being such emotional cannons, how could one ever choose them over the quite obviously superior brown. Such suave and composition could never be achieved by such a bluntly harsh red. He thought of his father, as his profession was a surgeon. A great amount of red would most likely be commonplace in an occupation like that. He also thought of how red eyes were more of a hammer in terms of their sentiment, and how brown were more of a scalpel. He thought more, and came to the conclusion that he was more brown than red. He was subtle.

His focus then turned towards the child’s hair. Once again, its hair was a grandiose showing of streaking blonde amongst waves of flowing orange, as if it glowed and reverberated off the golden locks. The hair flowed softly and gently like a floating leaf across the young child's face. Once again, he hated it. How could the child attain such perfection? It was all utter malignance!

He broke into an aggravated strut towards the young child. At this point he could see nothing but the red of the child’s eyes as it bled into the world around him. His skin reached an excruciatingly boiling echelon, and his arms swelled with rage towards the child. The child only stared blankly back at him, indifference being the only expression to be found on its face. This only engulfed him with more rage. Why was it just standing there? This perfect child chooses to cast aside all feelings, and chooses to stand there with an expression only hinting a tinge of boredom in his direction. He could not stand for this.

He raised his arm to strike the child. His hand connected to the child's face with a violent thump, and the child crumpled onto the ground, leaving a trail of blood lingering in the air. As it soared through the air, the wavering line of blood seemed almost majestic in its flight. If only for a moment, the dark and appalling blood spurt seemed to dance in the air, shimmering as the sun cast light upon its surface. Then the blood fell to the floor, covering the asphalt with a violent hiss as it immediately turned to vapor in the air from the intensely heated surface, leaving only a faint trace of red. He studied the travel of this line of blood for what seemed like minutes as it made its way to the ground. He then changed his gaze back onto the child, it sprawling on the road in an unnaturally sanguinary pose. Its mouth now pooled with maroon liquid from inside itself, it still kept its unfazed eye onto him. Standing over it, he threw another punch at the child, this time in the stomach. It recoiled by the blow, gasping in a horrific fashion as the air escaped its body. He then landed another punch, and then another. And then he added in a few kicks into the child. Each blow landed coursed renewed energy into his body. He felt as if the entrapment of the heavy burden of his skin had suddenly been lifted. He felt a cool breeze refreshing his body every time the child gasped in pain. The scene under the bridge was filled with the blood of the child. The hideous red spilled across the walls of the underpass, and all over the clothing of both present.

Once his lust for repulsive gore had died down, he looked upon the fruit of his horrible acts. The child laid still on the floor, the body soaked in its own mortal disarray. Its face no longer shone brilliantly. He realized the sun had dipped down, splattering an ugly red across a dreary blue backdrop. He studied the desecrated child’s face, and noticed the child’s eyes again. Though seemingly lifeless, they still carried a heavy gaze directly at him with an expression of shallow apathy.

His lessons had certainly concluded by now. There was nothing left for him here, so he returned home drenched in the child’s blood.

The two sit in silence across from each other for what seems like ages.

Person 2: Explain to me more about your want for fame.

Person 1: What about it?

P 2: Why do you want to be famous so badly?

P1 sits on their hands, staring at the ceiling for a while.

P1: Well, doesn’t everyone want to be famous?

P2: I don’t want to be famous.

P1: You know I hate when you lie.

P2: I wouldn’t call it lying.

P1: What would you call it?

P2: Constructive coercion.

P1: That doesn’t make sense.

P2: Quite so.

P1: Well, to be frank with you, it’s not very honorable.

P2: Why don’t you just say honest?

P1: I am honest.

P2: No, I mean you said ‘to be frank’, why didn’t you just say ‘to be honest’?

P1: I don’t know, probably just how I was born I guess. Does it bother you?

P2: To be frank, yeah.

P1: I acknowledge the intentional irony.

P2: Thank you, I pride myself on that one. By the way, I’m sorry.

P1: For what?

P2: For not being honorable.

P1: Oh no, I wasn’t commenting on your inconsequential pretense. I meant my reason for being famous.

P2 looks at their watch.

P2: Damn! We’ve gotten side tracked again. Have you possibly been prodding me with convolutions on purpose?

P1: I find your inadvertent tinge of alliteration entertaining.

P1 softly chuckles through a shy grin across from P2’s unamused glare. P1 lets out a sigh.

 P1: I guess the reason is because I want people to need me.

P2: Need you?

P1: Yeah, I guess I have this desire for others to depend on me. It’s quite the feeling if I’m to be frank.

P2: How would being famous make them need you?

P1: I guess for money, for status. I could provide that to them. I could have things to give. People would look up to me I guess.

P2: And you currently lack these wants you speak of.

P1: Well, to be frank, my whole life I’ve been needing other people, and It’s never been the other way around. Every relationship I have, I can’t help but feel like a parasite clinging to a host. People constantly try to shake me off, but I just keep on holding on. Kinda like I’m perpetually stuck in river rapids, and I have to keep holding onto these branches or else I’ll just get swept away without a trace. And I’m always asking. Favors here, advice there. I mean, really, what do I have to give in return?

P2: And you think being famous would fix that?

P1: Frankly, yeah. People need you. People love you.

P2: And you don’t care if the love is superficial?

P1: Well, heh, I’m not really in a position to negotiate, am I?

P2: I guess not.

A lull in the conversation emerges, if only for a moment.

P1: I’ve got something to ask.

P2: Go ahead.

P1: Is it selfish? Is what I want really selfish?

P2: Well, let's see. You want to become famous so others will become dependent on you, but it’s because you want to be less reliant and needy on others. Now that’s a toughie. I’d say, to be frank- ah! Now you’ve got me saying it.

P1: You could have said that one was ironic as well and I’d have gone with it.

P2: Haha, well I’ll try to remember it the next time it ironically slips out.

The alarm rings. Their time is up.

He woke up with a jolt, his mind falling and hitting the ground of consciousness in staggered intervals, slowly piecing together and forming the events that had elapsed yesterday. The carnage, the macabre horror stuck out like a thorn. Lying in the swallowing grasp of his bed, the child’s eyes pierced him all the same. They were cold but evelopingly warm at the same time. What shocked him to the core may have lovingly embraced another. He brushed the notion to the side. Even up to the end, the eyes were distant, unfocused on him, as if the eyes were an industrial telescope meandering over a speck of dust.

As his mind slowly fell into place, he sensed a sudden pain in his throat, as if it were being shrivelled violently by a vacuum. A wave of dry desiccation spread throughout his throat, leaving him wheezing as he tried to capture a drop of moisture in his throat. He registered that the dry pain was not only in his throat, but the entirety of his mouth. His hands shot to hold his neck, but as he looked at his hands, he realized they were covered in bruises and open cuts. He could even see inside the knuckle of his index finger, a small portion of bone could be seen out of a horrid gash. He swallowed repeatedly trying to quench the desert left in his throat. He stumbled wildly out of bed, his hands still tightly bound around his neck. His eyes started to blur as the overwhelming sense of aridity encased his thoughts. A thousand thoughts bounced around in his head, but at the same time each thought was moving too fast to even make out a single coherent image. In the flurrying whirlwind of his perception, he could vaguely make out the staircase. For a moment his mind went blank, and as he came to, he found himself tumbling down the stairs. He felt as if his life were in a constant state of pausing and playing. One moment he would feel completely still, suspended in the air, other times he would feel as if he were tumbling and crashing into each step at the speed of a car on the freeway. Every step he collided with seemed to register less and less, as if his body were adjusting to numb each blow. He kept tumbling down the stairs for a while, and then some. How long was this staircase?

He did not feel his body hit the bottom of the stairs; he only found himself there. One could argue the events were not in chronological order. He could have lied at the bottom of the stairs and tumbled his way up. All he knew was that he was at the bottom, and his eyes were still in a bleary haze.

His body felt unattached to him. He could not remember what he was dreaming about. Was he talking to someone? Was it important? Was he still dreaming? It could not be. How could he be so certain that he was not? He was not dreaming, and even if he were, it would not be important. Any dream he had earlier was also not important.

He pulled himself up from the floor whilst struggling to maintain a hold on the polished wood stair rail with his disgustingly sweaty hands. He felt the cloudy dissipate from his eyes, and in its place a painfully sensitive awareness returned, and with it a vast flurry of thoughts and emotions. Against the confining heat weighing on him, he broke into a spastic run towards the front door. The sun suddenly greeted him with a harsh strike of hellish light. He sprinted across his pristinely maintained lawn and onto the quiet suburban street. He then made a mad dash down the street, his lungs on the verge of bursting from exhaustion. As he ran, he saw the rows of houses on each side, as indistinguishable as they were numerous. They disappeared past him faster the further he ran, as if they were the ones moving and he was the one who was standing still. Nonetheless, he kept running, seemingly in place as the platoons of houses hurriedly marched away. This went on for some time.

He once again found himself at the underpass, his heart beating rapidly as the rays of sun beat on his back. The sight was awfully disturbing. The whole scene was clean as a whistle, as if all the blood and gore from yesterday’s events had vanished overnight. He then noticed who was with him. Once again, the child stood there under the bridge, looking more pristine than ever. There was not a single scratch on its being, its clothes in crisp condition. The child’s pure glow seemed to emanate stronger.

And once again, it enraged him more. With him still being incredibly out of breath, he pushed aside his fatigue and pushed towards the child. His aching muscles surged with rage as he approached the child as it only stood there watching him come closer as if it were a distant afterthought to it. Although it may have been because of the child’s lack of comprehension, he interpreted it as an arrogant jeer, provoking him. He threw a strong right jab at the child’s nose, landing with a cracking sound. Blood immediately gushed from the child’s nostril. Then he threw another jab. And then another. And then more, each punch straining his already tired muscles. He felt more encased in his skin than ever, like his being was trapped, suffocating in a small hole. No longer giving him a rush of excitement and energy that he had gained before, his body felt as if it weighed a ton. As each jab landed against the child’s delicate body, cuts on his knuckles opened more and more until he could no longer tell whether the blood flying in the air was from him or the child. He threw one more punch at the child, and then collapsed from exhaustion onto the searing hot ground. As he laid there, his heart kept thumping in his chest as if trying to break out from underneath its flesh prison. As his heart rate increased rapidly, he blacked out on the spot with his head facing the sky as the blaring glow of the sun turned into an icy void.

His consciousness returned to him after an unknowable amount of time. His hands were sticky and red as he attempted to lift himself up off the hard ground, eventually stumbling as his muscles were numb with pain. He let himself lie there on his back, facing the angry red sky as he allowed his thoughts to slowly return to him. The sun created an ambient red glow in the underpass as if a brooding rage was hiding in the dark corners, waiting to be unleashed. The child appeared, looking down on him. Its pure and opulent face cut through the acrid scenery, with once again not a scratch to be shown on its person. It was as if nothing he did could ever do seemed to affect the child. He noticed that the child had at last shown expression on its face. It was crying. Tears slowly streamed down its face and made pattering sounds as it landed on his body. He touched his own face, feeling a presence of moisture. Although much of the blood had dried on his hands and face, this wetness was something different. They were tears. The two remained still, one lying on the ground looking up and one standing above looking down. And they were both crying.

A faint beeping sound echoed around the underpass, its origin being from the watch on his wrist. Its faint orange glow peeking out from the cracks of caked blood signalled a reminder to him. He had forgotten about his lessons completely! He had already missed them yesterday, and he could not afford to miss a consecutive day. He was assuming, of course, that he was only unconscious for a few minutes. He tried to lift himself once more, but as he took inventory of himself, he realized that there would be no walking from his mangled limbs. He would have to crawl the rest of the way there.

He arrived at the front of the academy as he was greeted by a quaint little courtyard. Each bush and each tree were expertly trimmed and decorated the entrance of the building like elegant guards. He slinked across the milky white marble steps, dirtying them with a trail of deep maroon as blood seeped from his wounds. As he drew himself closer to the entrance of the academy, many students began to notice him. His unsightly appearance began to cause a commotion amongst the young scholars, as they were not used to such travesties at such an esteemed establishment. The commotion had finally reached the attention of one of the professors, who hurriedly paced into the courtyard. Their eyes stared accusingly into him, observing the bloody, gory mess that had been sprawled out before them.

“Where is your uniform?” The demanding question echoed throughout the courtyard.

At first he froze, utterly confused by the question. He looked down and realized that he was still in his sleepwear.

“I couldn’t change,” he answered.

The two sit in silence across from each other once again.

P2: May I inquire about a sensitive topic?

P1: Go ahead. Don’t feel obliged to ask for permission.

P2: Do you think you have a mental illness?

P1: Wow.

P2: You’re right. Excuse my behaviour. I should have never-

P1: No it’s alright. I don’t think I am.

P2: You don’t think you’re alright?

P1: No, I don’t think I’m autistic.

P2: Mental illness doesn’t always mean autism.

P1: Huh. I never knew that.

P2: Do you wish you had a mental illness?

P1: What kind of question is that?

P2 stares at P1 intently.

P1: Well…

P2: Well?

P1:  I don’t know.

P2 leans back in their chair.

P2: Go on.

P1: A part of me wishes I wasn't. Of course it’d be terrible, and my image would be ruined forever. No one would ever see me as me. There would always be a label next to my name, an asterisk next to every action I make. My uniqueness would be replaced with a diagnosis. My individuality would crumble.

P2: Is individuality important to you?

P1: It’s the most important thing to me.

P2: And the other part of you?

P1: The other part of me, a very small part, mind you, wishes I was. It would be comforting to know that I saw things differently from the rest; There would be a reason for my feeling of being out of place constantly. There would also be an explanation for so many of my mistakes. There would be a reason for my failures.

P2: That is… incredibly selfish. That is horrible.

P1: I guess so.

P2: I know so.

The two take a moment to study each other’s expressions and posture.

P2: Where do you think you are mentally? Do you believe you understand it all?

P1: It’d be tone-deaf to say I know everything. Of course I acknowledge my limits of knowledge.

P2: All you have is ideas. Ideas based on limited knowledge.

P1: Ideas are all you need if you have good intuition. I’d gotten this far with good intuition.

P2: You’ve gotten this far because you are a people watcher, not a toucher. The only time you touch people is to keep them at arm's length.

P1: Do you think I’m at arm’s length now?

P2: Yes, but with my arm, not yours.

P1: Why? Are you afraid of me?

P2: I could never be afraid of you.

P1 pauses briefly to attempt to decipher the meaning behind P2’s response.

P2: Do you try to reel back certain parts of yourself when you talk to others? Or just certain people?

P1: It depends on the audience. Adaptability is paramount.

P2: Are you adapting to me currently?

P1: Yes.

P2: How are you adapting to me currently?

P1: I won’t tell you.

P2: Did it start frequently?

P1: How can something start frequently? Do you mean recently?

P2 becomes visibly flustered.

P2: Ah! My apologies. I meant recently, of course.

P1: I suppose I have always been.

P2: Do you believe in a “true” self? As in, what a person really is without having to, as you put it, “adapt?”

P1: I believe there is a certain true self underneath the layers one presents themselves as. I do know that some are able to be their true selves all the time.

P2: Do you respect these people more?

P1: I’m glad they’re able to do that. I know I could never. All the praise for them.

P2: Do you find that people make the world a worse place?

P1: In what respect?

P2: All of them.

P1: There is no overall. Better or worse is contextual. But speaking as generally as possible, the world doesn't care. Better and worse are human concepts, so people can only make things better or worse for themselves. Considering that the average person will have more negative experiences than positive ones throughout their life, you could say that they are making it worse by simply existing.

P2: That’s an interesting touch on it.

P1: Touch? Do you mean take?

P2 sheepishly covers their face with their mouth.

P2: You embarrass me.

P1 shines a reassuring smile.

P1: I find it charming

P2: You’re just being sweet.

P2 returns the smile.

P2: I sense a feeling of longing from you. What do you long for?

P1: I’m unsure.  I miss having something I end up thinking about days after, reminiscing the feelings of the past. The feeling of getting lost in thought and exploration with someone. I guess that is what I long for.

P2: It feels worse when the time passes, correct?

P1: I think so. Like licking chapped lips only for them to become drier after. What do you think would solve it?

P2: Love, if anything.

P1: How much love is enough?

P2: How do you measure love?

The two sit in silence, as neither are able to answer a question of such magnitude.

P2: Do you think we’ve reached a natural conclusion? Is there anything you would like to add?

P1: I guess not. Well, it was nice to have this conversation with you.

P2: I agree.

A sense of fleeting memories fills the room.

P1: Au revoir, mon ami.

They never say it back.