Scout E.S. in the Shadows

  Candy wrappers slathered onto wooden tables and chip bags’ potent smells wafted through the air and around the stickiness of all the junk food you could ever imagine. No child knew it then, but those chemicals kept them high. Maybe it was on sugar, possibly on one of the countless chemicals under the nutritional information listings with names none of us could read. Either way, it lifted those of us who couldn’t rely on anything else, who kept that smile plastered on our faces from eight to three. A quarter of an hour after that injection, that wrinkling of the wrappers, the crushing of the Smarties, we were free from everything.             We only needed it more the older we got, but eventually, it wasn’t strong enough; we needed something new, something stronger. A few sniffs couldn’t hurt, right? Just like those powdered Smarties, except much more expensive. I almost couldn’t feel myself after it, and all I could remember during it was those Smarties from all the years before.

  The office was the only place that sunlight didn’t reach. On fall afternoons, when I sit in cold corners on stiff chairs, I forget the warmth of the Sun. The familiar face seated across from me was more fixed than the contents of the room, never influenced by the inhabitants of its environment. I enjoyed it; it was comforting for something in my life to stay constant when nothing else ever could. Yet today, I wanted something different. I wanted something better . The feeling of speaking without concern or return had become a burden, not a privilege. Today I wanted to be understood rather than heard. The forms of these walls could no longer contain what my heart and mind released from the restraints of my fragile frame. Complaints, grievances, and anything else worth mentioning were spoken, yelled, and expressed. The face would listen, would care, but not feel. Feelings must be shown; feeling twists the face in every direction, fighting its own urges for self-expression. I called o

           I tried this time. At least I can say that, confidently. And yet I reach no consensus on who I want to become. It seems the fairer I am to myself, the fewer people I have around me. Again, I ask myself, what have I done wrong? What do the ripples in my reflection mean? It must be me; if everyone around me leaves, it can’t always be them. Maybe my breath secretes something poisonous. Maybe my voice explodes eardrums. Or maybe I am just so insufferable that my presence itself is suffocating.             But then I remember all the times I stood by them, in hell and heaven. I remember feeling their suffering, and always being concerned for their well-being. So, I cut my heart out to save them, but I found that they never needed it in the first place. I am the fool for not being sure; what with the fact that they never had one. I clean their wounds and stitch them up, and once they are well enough they fly away back to those that can give them a laugh.             I disappea

  The second one was placed on my path home. The dirt road was crowded with leaves and weeds, and this time it was a bright yellow bird that was placed perfectly on its side. A piece of paper was tied around its neck. I didn’t want to read it, but I was too afraid of what could happen if I wasn’t aware of it. After all, no one fears the dark, they fear what could be in it. I pulled the string delicately away from its hollow body. The beige cutout fell into the bushes, and I scrambled to grab it. I brought it close to my face, savoring the moment of mystery. It read: One strike left. Leave your Verse . They knew I wouldn’t listen. Even as the bird’s blinding feathers shuffled through the wind and my shoes sunk in the mud, I was grounded. Even as the clouds wept for me, my eyes saw so clearly ahead. I walked through the empty trails that were so little visited as the Hands ran home to bend over and complete mundane work. I wondered; did they ever feel the dirt under them instead of c

  Their images were amusing. I was as amused as a person as I could be; I was brain-dead from the countless hours watching and consuming mindless content. The only thing I could afford to waste was my time, and that I would do. Each second, minute, and hour, I would stare into the abyss of the brightened screens and only notice the reflection that sat disappointed in its existence. It never felt like it was me who stared back, but rather a grayed version exhausted from its self-imprisonment into the virtual world. I avoid my gaze until the screen in front of me becomes a detail; the main event is the aspects of the atmosphere that can never keep me entertained. Again, the screen calls me back in; again, I have no control. As I watch my surroundings move, the screen lures my eyes back. Would I rather test the possibility of happiness knowing that I will risk losing it?                I prefer to choose my sadness than to lose my happiness.                I watch; my eyes roll back and f