Darkness.

• Rashini Suriyaarachchi, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2010

Darkness. The room was large, smelt strongly of chlorine, and was pitch-black. If you were, however, able to see the inside of this room: if light suddenly revealed its contents, you would wish to be in darkness once more. At first, perhaps, you could admire your modern surroundings, maybe even smile at the glimmering reflection of the fluorescent lights on the water. And your eyes might follow the gentle swishing of this water, pleased at the apparent translucency. But this is the end of your merriment. Doubtlessly, you will then observe the brown mass at the edge of the pool: thousands of strands of hair, floating aimlessly as if in space. And then the broad shoulders, the smooth back, and the feet- still shoed. You will see all this, and instantaneously, all is dark again. All is dark again, in your mind.

Fumbling with the large ring of unfamiliar keys; cold, inhospitable metal against his clammy skin, Thomas unlocked and hauled open the fading corrugated roller doors. Immediately, he shivered, as a wind of determination, overnight cool, and chlorine hit him. He flicked every light switch in one, smooth motion, and smiled, pleased at the simultaneously brightness that overcame the room. Shining off the clear water’s surface, this light emulated his hope for this new opportunity: good pay, free swimming lessons for him and his children, perhaps a brighter future for them all. His eyes merrily passed white walls, grey concrete, and the blue pool floor. Passed right onto the mass of brown at the other edge of the pool.

Roy Brown. Red head. Brown when his hair was wet. Ironically, he was a championship swimmer. Every morning, his mother would drive him to the local swimming centre, and watch him as he swam laps. Broad shoulders, muscular arms, calves like a cyclist. Rows and rows of awards, carefully laminated, medals, meticulously polished, and trophies, dusted every other day, shined until his mother could see her proud, gleaming smile while she cleaned. Thomas had seen Roy once before, not swimming, but in the city. He had stopped washing the window, paused, stories up, to watch the scene below him. He’d watched a small boy among giants, his naïve features scrunching with pain, watched him put down the cigarette with innocent disgust, and watched him cringe under the glare of his superiors, and lift it to his mouth again . No, Thomas has never seen Roy swim. But now, he’d seen him drowned.

The Brown family are from a town, a street, a house just like any other in suburbia. A large grand piano, heaving with years of overzealous playing, aching with the memory of every song in the preliminary to grade six syllabuses, stands beside the stairwell. A deep purple sign erected nearby proudly states: ‘This neighbourhood says no to domestic violence.’ A puzzle; its intricate pieces forming a famous painting- Uffizi by Da Vinci lays half finished, but orderly, on the kitchen table. A belt, faded now, disfigured and discoloured, sits in a drawer somewhere, waiting for its next opportunity to play policeman. These walls, these people, just like any other.

Mr Brown sits in the study, leather shoes planted firmly on the pristine white and brown patterned rug, twice vacuumed this week. His habitually persistent typing pauses, his train of thought suddenly lost. Vision blurring, his hearing heightens. The soft, slow, noise made by his daughter’s new favourite waltz. His wife, beating, stirring, chopping. The ultimate cliché of domestic perfection. Except… where was the low droning echo of Latin verbs from his son’s room? Mr Brown strains his ears, fearing the worst.

“Video games!” he mutters, anger rising. He brushes non-existent creases and fluff off his shirt while he ascends the staircase, thinking of new household laws to enforce; new methods he can utilize to ensure his son’s study groups never turn into video game groups again. As he reaches the top floor, his gaze fixates on a wispy breath of smoke creeping under the door of his son’s room: ash white contrasting heavily against the dark mahogany. He freezes, then, slowly, his hand moves to his belt buckle.

It is dark now, and Roy slumps on the unaccommodating floor, alone. Hours have passed since Jeremiah and Ryan were calmly asked to leave, his father’s eyes unable to conceal his anger. Even more time has passed since those very same boys, in spite of Roy’s objections, lit up in his room, since those boys had started at the footsteps in the hallway, extinguished their cigarettes on his quilt. His emotions had been on overdrive for those past hours; trepidation, unease, frustration, and pain. But now Roy was alone, sitting in darkness. Alone with his depression, his aching body, his salty cheeks. And now, alone, his mind began to clear. And with this clarity, came realisation. Nothing was ever going to be enough for them: not for the boys at school, no matter how hard he tried to fit in, no matter how much he helped them out, how much homework of theirs he completed. And nothing would be enough for his family, either; no matter how much he practised piano, no matter how hard he studied for school, no matter how well behaved he was, no matter how well he swam. He realised, suddenly, that nothing he ever did would be good enough. That nobody; no friend, no parent, and especially not himself- nobody could ever accept him for who he was. And just like that, he knew what had to be done. Sliding his favourite jacket off a silk covered hanger, Roy walks out of the room, out of the house, for the last time.

Roy jumps off the bus without acknowledging the driver, and lands hard on the asphalt ground. Shock waves travel up his legs, forcing him to flinch, the new pain forcing him to remember old. His walk shows nothing of the emotion, the pain inside him; his head held high, his back straight, and his strides long and steady. His face muscles are relaxed, and his arms swing naturally by his sides. But his guise of normality disappears as he approaches the large, modern, swimming centre- the only place he truly regards as home. Metres away, his mind jolts, remembering what he has come here to do. All his thoughts, memories, hopes, morph into an excruciating ball of mental pain, and a physical pain, a pressure in his chest he had never before felt soon joins. Sinking to his knees on the gravel, he digs his fingers deep into the ground, and then upwards again to pull at his own hair. Minutes pass, as his brain searches through the wreckage of his memories for one lingering positive, one last reason to push through this. But there were none.

Shards from the broken window embed in his face, but he feels no pain. The lights flick on and off again, as there is no longer any joy. Water floods his lungs, and hazard lights flash in his mind, but he does not fight. And then, all is dark again. All is dark again, in the world.