The Writer: Chapter 1

The only thing that is worth remembering, and worth remembering over and over again, is that in this world, under all and any circumstance, nothing ever happens.

My name is Jonathan Fisher and I can stare at the sun longer than anyone else on this planet. Longer than you. And I am afraid you are not going to like me.

Most of the time I’m just a ghost, a shadow riding in the back seat of a bus, a whisper travelling across a Universe only ten miles wide. So it shouldn’t surprise you that the first event I can recall with an almost morbid precision took place on my twenty third birthday. That was the day we buried my father.

And still, as the hole in the ground swallowed his casket, I couldn’t feel anything. Because nothing had happened to me before, nothing had left a mark upon my soul. And in the moments of my first sorrow I understood that the worst fate is to be no one.

Shadows quivered around the cemetery as the sun hid behind a murky shroud of clouds. Only a timid web of light remained, engraved on the surface of that endless sea of darkness.

A hundred eyes hoped to catch a glimpse of agony and pain on my face. Time seemed to stretch like a rubber band, and all I could do was wait for the rubber to rip.

I felt numb, blind, and deaf while I was hopelessly trying to find the meaning of something so elusive, something that seemed to be hiding in the deepest crevasse of my mind. I was running after a thought that seemed to be so clear and simple…

And then, just as I was beginning to lose hope, I found what I so desperately needed. The realization that words couldn’t explain the death of someone I almost knew, someone I almost loved.

My victory was short lived because my vision still couldn’t prevail through the stillness that insulated my soul, which had built an unbreakable wall between me and the rest of the world.

They were all looking at me as if I were some kind of freak, but that provided me with a little bit of comfort.

All great men are misfits, yet I couldn’t help but wonder what was worse: to be like everyone else or to be entirely different. I could only think about the fact that I needed a tragedy in my life, just so I could feel alive, just so my heart wouldn’t stop beating.

Life goes on. No matter what, life goes on.

Did that make me a villain? I wasn’t sure. No matter how many books you read, you’ll never be prepared to face the villains that inhabit your own little story. Your life’s story.

The truth is that we’re all strong enough to endure someone else’s tragedy.

They thought I was a bastard because I couldn’t cry. My mother was sobbing beside me, and I just stood there, with my hands tucked deep inside my pockets, staring blindly at a slowly fading abyss, staring down at the blandest possible ending to a story.

We are born and then we die. And in between lies only this strange darkness that we can’t break. That’s, probably, the only certainty we have in life.

After the ceremony was over, everyone left me there. They all abandoned the son who couldn’t weep for his father. So I had to walk back home.

I think I should say something cheesy, like that was the longest, hardest walk in my life. But it wasn’t. It was just cold and dark outside. Street lamps were struggling to fight off the night, grasshoppers were singing their pathetic lullaby, and the smell of summer flowers echoed throughout the old town.

On my way home I stopped at a supermarket and bought a can of soda. I drank half of it and the other half I spilled on the pavement.

When I got home, I unlocked and opened the door trying to be as silent as possible. I didn’t want to wake up my mother. I didn’t even turn the lights on. I always tried to be such a good son.

As I staggered my way down the hallway, my feet tripped over something. I couldn’t see what it was, so I turned the lights on. My father’s black leather shoes. Size six. He had such small feet. I smiled at the thought that he had bought those shoes with me. Small tears, proof of their considerable age, ran across their lacquered surface. Dried mud stained the tip of the right shoe. My father used to walk in such a strange way.

I realized what had happened. And I cried.

This post was sponsored by Black Jack in Bali.
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What exactly is his agenda? Who was his love like?  World needs to know who Mike Tango is.
An insight to his psyche would lead you to understand the coveted world peace missions he has executed in the past.
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There were grim and dangerous situations which the main character has undergone but he always emerges.
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Many recruits are assigned to investigate what’s he’s up to next.”

13 thoughts on “The Writer: Chapter 1

  1. Your writing is excellent, Cristian. You got me trapped in your story where I could feel each word of pain and darkness, also of grief at the loss of someone so important like a father. Your story is so relatable.Today is my father’s name day, Saint Joseph (Sant Josep in the Catalan language). My father so loved to celebrate it! Today is also Father’s Day, celebrated internationally, but my father never wanted to celebrate March 19 as such. It was just his name day and that was important enough, much more important than those silly days like Saint Valentine’s and Mother’s Day, which are pure commercial days. In Catalonia we have Saint George’s Day (Dia de Sant Jordi) where we give each other books and roses. That is a much better love day than commercial Saint Valentine. Besides, it includes all kinds of love. That is what my father thought and I agree. March 19 was also a day of great joy as you could feel the spring coming. My father was like the spring, so full of hope and optimistic by nature. I don’t know about the deceased man of your story. What kind of son-father relationship this must have been? Such a beautiful one like the one I had with my father or rather a difficult one? Anyway, thank you so much for sharing your precious writing. I do not believe in serendipity, but in sinchronicity. It is not casual that I have come across your story precisely today.

    Liked by 3 people

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