Waiting

• Suzannah Markel, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2013

'Brother'
Darkness. In the black I see the vibrant colours that come from shutting tight your eyes after looking at a bright light. But there is no bright, no light. The colours swirl and spot my eyeless vision. And there is only darkness. And an incessant beeping sound, a pulsing, that keens in the back of my consciousness. It is my only companion in this strange solitude. And there is only black.

'Mother'
Stinking hot and coppery, the taste of dirt and sweat at the back of my mouth. Unhurriedly I shamble down the dry deserted back-streets of these suburban grids. My shuffling feet are all that distinguish me from the red-brick cages of the farce of display homes and unknown, purposeless buildings. I pull my knitted shawl tight over my shoulders, pressing forward. Though heat rises from the ground, I feel exposed, vulnerable in this empty street. Windows stare at me like gaping eyes, and doors follow my passing.

'Father'
Pick up the box, fold the lid down. Stack on the crate. Heave a shoulder-shuddering sigh. Turn. Pick up the box. Fold lid. Stack. Turn. Pick up. Fold. Stack. Turn. This is existence. Serve the machine. Continue at expected rate. Do not slow, and don’t increase speed either. Or the cog you revolve will spin out of place, and take the machine crashing down with it. Turmoil and freedom will reign; until you are replaced. And you can’t afford to be replaced. I have one desire, through working hours; to stand still, a blockade amidst the rushing river of time. Just for one minute to see the boxes pile up, spilling over, cogs yelling, panicky. I could count the seconds until the machine identifies the disturbance in its black steely innards. But no, I think – too much of a machine myself. Pick up. Fold. Stack.

'Sister'
The midday sun blares through my bedroom blinds. Harsh beams of light burn my tired skin. I stumble to the shower, peeling off sweaty, me-smelling clothes as I go. Step in, turn water on full blast. Hot jetstreams pour over me. Forcing my skin awake. Pain revives me.
Occasionally I remind myself of life before. Before the pain and ceaseless waiting. Before the endless nights and dreary days.
On the farm. On our farm. Where mum would sing the morning into being, where dad would share his thoughts. And my brother. The knot that tied our little family together. Peacemaker, friend.
Life was never perfect, but it was our life. Ours to make mistakes with, ours to fix them. Not like this existence; battered breath, hushed tones. The time we wait for, that sits in everyone’s minds, hangs on my tongue. Waiting for it all to end. Not strong enough to pull the plug. Sounding harsh, cruel even, out loud. But I know what grief tastes like. I know how it sits in your stomach; seeing my brother so close, yet forever unreachable.
We are fixated on this never ending play-act of our previous lives. All the while praying for the release that will free our bound bodies. That will let me cry, like a plunge of icy water. Sweet and cold; true awakening. We all pray for release. And we wait.

'Brother'
The pulsing stops; fading blackness. Rushing towards myself I feel an immense force of light. So long in the dark I have waited the brightness is stinging and blinding. Fear ebbs away and my world bursts into a beautiful, colourful beingness of neverwhere.

We wait no more.