A Narration

The radiant beams of the sun were throttled by a horde of tenebrous clouds as Andy peered out of his window, his mind pleading for the sweet euphoric opportunity to see something, anything, remotely interesting. “Nothing,” Andy thought to himself. Thinking to himself was among the few things that Andy did that could be considered a talent, the thoughts that he fostered were often inconsequential, plebeian at best, and it was for this reason that he did not dare to voice them out loud. Who would care to hear the opinion of somebody like him? A sigh was the only thing to claw its way out of the Alcatraz that was his mouth as his brain whimpered in disappointment at the lost opportunity to release dopamine from its prison. Andy returned his attention to the screen of his computer, a clinical white glow stretching across his face as his hands hovered over the keyboard, his fingertips bellowing empty threats at the letter-keys. Andy continued to think to himself, “Come on! You need to start the essay, just write something.” He wracked his brain “How has an experience in your life changed your way of thinking?” Andy brandished a shovel to his long-term memory and proceeded to gouge it for any significant occurrences that have had any impact on shaping him to become the miserable individual he is today, as beads of rain began to squeeze from the murky clouds that hovered ominously above his street.

Andrew Robert Thomas was seventeen years old and had lived a life swathed in crippling mundanity.

He lived in a small town about forty minutes from his school, too far away to meet up with the few friends he had made from said school, so he spent his weekends alone, tearing through hours of downtime by occupying himself with schoolwork or reading. For all his time spent doing schoolwork, Andy was certainly not considered intelligent, his school grades where confined to just below or above class averages. He had two loving parents who cared for him very much but in recent years he had found himself erecting mental barriers that nullified their barrages of moral support. “Significant events? Something?!” No, Andy had no stories of broken bones or any injuries that would be entertaining to retell, no exciting instances of daredevil stunts on bicycles in his youth, no hobbies, no skill in musical instruments, zero notable achievements. He had never created a thing. Andrew Robert Thomas had limited his life to observation, he simply existed, and witnessed as his life spun by, each day fading into obscurity like tears in a flood. “Shut up.” Andy thought to himself as he slammed his laptop shut with cataclysmic force. The white glow of the monitor that once illuminated his face receded into nothing. As he held his head in his hands, he listened to drops of rain unenthusiastically batter the roof above him, drumming a soothing rhythm through his skull.

“I can’t do this.” He thought, correctly, Andy could not do this essay. He simply lacked the ability to recall any experience that had changed him, had Andy been the same since his birth? It is entirely possible.

The Portuguese poet, Fernando Pessoa, wrote that “Direct experience is an evasion, a hiding place for those without any imagination. To narrate is to create while to live is to merely be-lived.” As Andy read this, lying in bed, it was as if the words had lunged at him, attacking him, tearing him to shreds. “Stop tormenting me and let me read, damn-it.” He protested in his thoughts. Andy went on to read the Book of Disquiet by Mr Pessoa for a few more hours, indulging in nothing but direct experience while his laptop hibernated on his desk, particles of dust colonising the keyboard as he neglected his means to create.

Andy awoke from his slumber. He glanced out his window from beneath his duvet and found that the sky still exuded a discouraging grey glow. He didn’t dare emerge from his bed without checking the temperature outside the comforting cocoon of his blanket. His hand delicately emerged from its safe haven to be confronted by the sharp, Baltic air of the final morning of winter. Andy ran through the same morning routine he had adopted for the last decade of his life, showering with the same shampoo, eating the same breakfast cereal and wrapping himself in the same restrictive uniform.

His navy-blue tie constricted around his neck like a python as he guzzled water from a day-old glass that moistened his arid throat like a torrential downpour in a desert. He left his home early, partly to ensure that he didn’t miss his bus but mostly to avoid conversing with his parents.

Deceased, blackened leaves were buried in their caskets beneath his shoes as he briskly walked to his bus-stop along a very specific route. “Alright, I should probably slow down.” Andy thought as Brittany Becker’s house came into view. The creak of a door was somehow enough to brighten Andy’s mood as Brittany sauntered down her porch from the front door, greeting Andy with an enthusiastic “Mornin’.” Brittany was amazing, her hair was a hypnotic, cosmic, shade of black, her emerald eyes contained nebulae that were as bright as supernovas. Not only was she transcendently attractive, Andy also certainly loved to chat with her. The unfortunate truth, however, was that he didn’t stand a chance, he was simply too boring, she liked him about as much as a vegan likes a meat platter. She simply put up with him and tried her best to ignore him. “That’s not true at all.” Andy thought, “What’s your problem?”

His attention was drawn back to Brittany and suddenly, it felt as if his heart was brawling with his lungs, he managed to toss out a choked “Hey,” in response.

“Wow. You aren’t sounding very dandy, Andy.” She replied with a coy grin, “She is ridiculous.” He thought to himself,

“You should really be proud of yourself, I don’t even want to know how long you’ve been waiting to use that monstrosity.” He snickered while recovering from a chuckle,

“Seriously you have no idea, I was doing the essay a few nights ago and I came up with that bad boy, I’ve legit been waiting for ages for the chance to spring that on ya.” She rebutted,

“Well you should be honoured because it’s clearly a display of your immeasurable genius, next Fernando Pessoa over here.” He wheezed between giggles. As soon as he said it he realised it was a transcendently foolish move, how would she know who Fernando Pessoa is? Why would she care? Now she’s going to figure out that Andy is a sheltered, miserable boy who spends his spare time reading the work of obscure poets, and if that isn’t oppressively unattractive, he doesn’t know what is. “Wh-She gave me the book?! Why do you do this?” Andy puzzled, clearly unaware that Brittany would despise a feeble shut-in such as himself.

“Oh, obviously I’m famous poet material, my first masterwork being ‘The Curious Case of Dandy Andy.’” She giggled in response, putting on an act so that Andy didn’t feel too terrible, Andy considered, clearly in denial. They continued to chat on their way to the bus-stop, and subsequently, on the way to school, as rain began to trickle from the sky once again, as it had the night before.

The ever-distant hum of the teacher’s monologue ricocheted through the recesses of his skull as Andy delved into his memories in an effort to recover anything that would be able to fit into the essay that was looming menacingly over him. Embarrassing phases from his youth lunged at him in an attempt to throttle him, though he ducked to dodge them. Various memories of his loving parents bombarded him before he slammed them into his cupboard.

“To narrate is to create while to live is to merely be-lived.” The words slashed at his cranium and he winced. An idea emerged in the distance, a blinking lighthouse. It emanated a light thumping sound, a soft drumbeat, it became louder, more obnoxious. The lighthouse was obscured by the crashing waves in the storm as he struggled to keep his neural life-raft afloat, he could barely make anything out from the rain that pelted at his eyes. The thumping screamed at his ears, “I know wh-" -Andy’s thought process was abruptly halted by the emphatic thumping of his mathematics teacher’s pen on his desk, his eyes hastily sprang open as if his life depended on it.

“Didn’t get enough sleep last night, Mr Thomas?” His teacher sternly asked, followed by a subtle Mexican wave of snickers and giggles from his classmates. “Just leave me alone, sir.” He internally protested, before answering with an unenthusiastic “Sorry, sir.” His response was complimented by a brief lecture on ‘responsibility for his own education’ that Andy did not listen to at all, and so he simply stared out of the window, observing the beads of rain bleed from the ashen clouds as the sun struggled to push its way past.

“To live is to merely be-lived.” Andy was perplexed by this statement. The entire school day he obsessed over it, trying to justify his own life experiences as anything other than simple observation. Had Andy ever created anything? Well, of course not, he couldn’t even write an essay about himself.

“Saying this is only making it worse.” Was Andy depressed perhaps? No, not really, he was simply unsatisfied with the unadventurous decisions he had made in his life that had led him to this point of profound emotional apathy. The school day ended and Andy lumbered over to his locker to collect his things. He was just ready to leave when Ben Stephenson stepped in front of him. There was a thundering boom as the soles of his titanic leather boots assaulted the floor tiles. Andy didn’t even know how Ben was allowed to wear those gargantuan boots but he presumed the teachers were too scared to call him out, Ben was a monstrous figure after all.

“Where’s the essay?” He abruptly interrogated. Andy’s mind flashed back to a few days earlier when Ben had demanded that Andy write his essay for him and Andy in his immense foolishness had presumed that Ben was joking.

“Oh. I thought you were joking.” Andy answered, with an uncomfortable laugh.

“You serious? Did it look like I was joking?” Ben pressed. Andy hated this guy, simply because he was rewarded with genes that gave him a masculine presence he felt he could demand things from others. “What an asshole.” Andy thought, though he would never have the guts to say it to Ben’s face. “I’m done with you, I absolutely would say it to his face.” Andy debated, denying the nature of his character. “I’ll do it! I’ll say it to him!” Andy once again thought, flinging empty threats.

“Shut up! I’m done with you, you annoying…asshole!” Andy bellowed.

“What did you say? You stupid bitch?” Ben smirked. Andy realised he’d said that to the wrong person, his mind and frame shrivelled like a prune in the face of any remote terror. He was scared. Like a child. “Stop. Shut up!” He grit his teeth, grinding them together with the force of tectonic plates, shaving off chunks of enamel as an untameable fury boiled in his throat.

Andy’s body threatened to continue, to give Ben a piece of his mind, though Ben was telling some truth, Andy was a coward, too afraid to even utter his own thoughts. “If I get some bullshit punishment because you’re too fucking stupid to do my homework Andy, I’m going to beat the shit out of you.” Ben threatened, and Andy took it, as his skin turned yellow and the moisture disappeared from his tongue, he realised how truly pathetic he was. “Fuck off and fuck you!” Andy bellowed, Ben’s eyebrows converged with a scalding hostility and before Andy was given the chance to correct his mistake, his head was cleft in twain by a swing from Ben that rattled his insides and caused him to fold like a lawn-chair. It was the first time Andy had voiced his thoughts out loud in years and all it did was cause him immense physical pain, though the situation was entirely his fault. Andy observed as two teachers grabbed Ben and dragged him away. His vision was a blur and before he knew, he was in the nurse’s office. The nurse was able to give him some paracetamol before sending him home. Andy was barely able to make it to the bus before it left. He sat next to Brittany, where she supposedly admired his bravery for yelling at Ben, though she couldn’t have genuinely meant it.

As they meandered home, the rain once again skydived towards them. Brittany shielded them with an umbrella as she asked, “Are you all right, Andy?”

“Well I’m not gonna lie, the bruise on my temple isn’t making me a dandy Andy.” He replied, breaking his long forgotten charisma out of its solitary confinement. She let out a chuckle but then adopted a more serious tone.

“Seriously, Andy, are you okay? Because sometimes it just feels like you think you’re bothering me or something by talking to me and I’m letting you know that you’re not.” Andy was confused,

“Um. Thanks for the compliment.”

“Andy you’re really funny, and you’re kind, and I’m just letting you know I really value your company.” She continued to elaborate. What was her game? What was she trying to do?

“She’s just being really nice.” Andy suggested.

“Wow. Well, thanks Brittany, you’re also really fun to talk to and, not to sound like a robo-person, but I really value your company too.” He delivered a muted smile in an effort to not look like an absolute idiot, she grinned back at him, then squinted as if she’d remembered something.

“I was reading that Book of Disquiet and I read something that really hit me hard, you know?

‘To narrate is to create while to live is to merely be-lived’.” Andy’s mind shrivelled at the mentioning of the phrase. She continued, “I didn’t really get what it meant, like what was ‘to narrate’? But I realised that, to put it simply, just speak what you feel, right? And I realised that I don’t tell the people I care about how much they mean to me very often, so that’s where that random bunch of compliments came from by the way.” Andy couldn’t repress his rebelling face muscles as they stretched into a gleeful smile, he probably looked like an idiot. “No, I’m allowed this, I don’t look like an idiot.” They’d reached Brittany’s house and the pummelling rain had lightened to a drizzle. “Want to borrow my umbrella?” Brittany asked as they locked eyes for a brief moment, the stars in her iris brightening. He couldn’t resist as his limbs acted independently of his mind and enveloped Brittany in a heartfelt hug. “You’re all right, hold onto it. I’ll see you tomorrow!” Brittany shot him a grin as she walked up her porch towards her door. Andy was filled with a fleeting sense of happiness. “No, this isn’t fleeting. This is the happiest I’ve been in a while,” Andy thought, perhaps correctly.

The rain didn’t touch him, it was as if there was a barrier around him as he paraded home.

He bounded through the front door and into his room, springing into his chair as he swivelled to face his laptop. Andy created his essay, assaulting the keyboard, ridding it of the civilisations of dust which had colonised it. The Portuguese poet, Fernando Pessoa wrote that “Direct experience is an evasion, a hiding place for those without any imagination. To narrate is to create while to live is to merely be-lived.” Everyone can live a life, but the question that Pessoa raises is, what do you have to say about it? Andy battered through the task at hand, painting a stream of consciousness onto the page, he finished and decided to glance over it. As he looked over his work, he thought to add one last item to his completed creation. “Sir, this essay question is ridiculously broad and poorly chosen, could we possibly receive a more specific one in future?”

The teacher would never really listen to Andy’s sugges- “I don’t care. As long as I’m saying something.” He winced as a bright flash ambushed his vision, only to notice that a thin ray of light from the sun was beaming through his window and onto his face. He could no longer see the clouds that seemed to dwell in the sky outside his window, perhaps they had moved elsewhere, perhaps they would return. “No. They’re gone for good, it’s the last day of winter.” Andy argued and, to be honest, he makes a surprisingly good point.