Author: a beautiful somewhere PM
I'm not watching the television, the television is watching me.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Tragedy - Words: 501 - Reviews: 2 - Published: 07-31-08 - Status: Complete - id: 2553010
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: Please tell me what you think. This one means a lot to me...
((X-posted to my devart.))
P.S. Typo fixed.
I'm not watching the television, the television is watching me. Watching as I sit here staring, a reflection within a reflection that just goes on forever. I move my hand in front of my face, and the TV replies in kind.
What am I doing here?
I uncross my legs, lifting them up from the coffee table. Sit normally for a moment (feet on the ground). Cross them again, left foot on top this time.
The screen is blank, but I can see the movements inside, curving out toward the edge of the glass. This is an old TV. There are people in there from 1995. I know, because I see them sometimes when I turn it on.
What are they doing in there?
Living their lives, completely oblivious. Blindsided by everything the audience can see. You can scream at them all you want, but they never hear, never see the inevitable.
'The light at the end of the tunnel is an oncoming train.'
I remember someone said that to me once, but I can't recall who. Maybe it was an old, bearded man on a park bench somewhere, breath reeking of whiskey as he imparted his wisdom to lost passersby. Perhaps it was the girl from the corner of Lexington and Vine, spilling broken pieces of herself from a mouth too young for such harshness, to someone buying her time just to keep her safe from the world for a while.
Everything I see is strange. The TV is crying, so I do too. Because, really, it seems like the only appropriate thing to do.
I'm dreaming as I sit here on the couch. You come on the screen, your kitchen curving behind you and fading into the empty space around the TV. You smile at me. It's nice, so I smile back.
"I've missed you."
I nod, and my reflection repeats the motion, just a second behind. It's enough to make me see myself, the person that isn't really me. He's standing next to you, but you're looking straight at me. Something scrolls down the screen beside you, and it catches my eye. A newspaper, a video, a reporter.
"No survivors... worst in years... train... company about the... fatalities..."
I am more aware of myself than ever. On the screen, we are holding hands. You, and me, and the me that isn't me. I wonder if the people from the movies could watch this and care.
We fade slowly together. You are pulling away from me, and I feel my heart ripped slowly from my chest. The edges sweep in, black and then white as the image recedes. But there's an imprint left over, like a pixelated stencil of the outline of your eyes.
You are here, you are here, you are here.