"SHADOWS"
By
Bill Olson
© 1983 and 2001 by Bill Olson
"I often sit alone… the smell of old dust in my room. I don't know exactly what I think about. Perhaps visiting Mars or the Moon. That would be fine if… if I could still smell the dust I'm used to."
I sat silently a moment, trying to think of more to say.
"I like it best with dim lighting,” I said. “That's better than darkness because of the shadows. I like the atmosphere."
After a long time she said something, but I was listening to a car horn outside the window and didn't catch it. She looked down at her clock then spoke again:
"What do you like about shadows?”
She waited but I was silent. "What atmosphere do shadows create?”
"It's like…" I tried to clarify it in my mind. “…I see things that make the shadows, things that shouldn't be here… mysterious things that don't exist like us. It's more like they… bring the shadows. They bring silence. Their forms are in the shadows. And when I'm in the shadows… then they're upon me like… like millions of strands of a spider's web… suffocating me… smothering me. And I can no longer hear the pounding in my chest; it's gone. But I have a screaming in my ears. It permeates my head -- ringing and ringing like the sounds of monsters. Then the sweat comes from under my skin -- it covers me like the shadows. The sweat… I can't trust it because, well… you know, inside the body it's all dark. I feel like I'm becoming part of the shadows. They’re inside me. They’re outside me. There's nothing in between. I don't exist anymore. That's scary. And it's sad. To die – to fade away… and… and… and. There's nobody around to know. To care. To care.
"I think I like this because I have no responsibility towards anyone else. They can live their lives. I don't have to worry about hurting them. I don't have to worry about what's expected of me as a friend. I'm worried I'll hurt someone's feelings then lose their friendship. But if I'm a shadow in a dusty room, I don't have to worry. I feel like I'm safe. Nobody has to reject me. Nobody has to feel pain again because I hurt them once."
I was exhausted. I had drawn a line, erasing it as I went. I wanted to forget I'd said something that would cause her to either feel sorry for me or think me insane. I hadn't thought of it in such detail before. I was exhausted and wanted to rest.
"Nobody has to feel pain again," she said.
I felt my knuckles tighten. My fingers wrapped around the arm of the chair. I heard something like a foghorn outside. Why is her office near all these noises? Traffic. Shouting. Whistles. Horns…. There were noises inside, too: Someone should fix the ventilator: It continually thumps: Thump, Thump, Thump. I would think she'd want her patients to be able to concentrate. I don't know. Maybe everything is related. I can't concentrate very well anyway. But I did ok when I told about the shadows.
Now would she want me to answer something else? What? What can I talk about? I can't talk about other people's pains; I don't care about them.
I hear her talking, but I won't answer her. I'll grip the arms of the chair -- the one I'm in. If she keeps asking me, I'll just grip harder, but I will not talk.
She's silent now. She looks at her clock.
"Time's up,” she said. “Next week, then."
"What?” She can't! We haven't finished yet. You don't build a bridge then stop, putting it off for a week. We're here for a purpose, we have a job to do: My job is to give her money; her job is to help me. She hasn't helped me.
I left her office. I didn't complain. I must let her at least pretend she has control. I'll have to fool her, to be submissive -- like a shadow.
On the street now, I look around and see the people. They avoid me -- just like they avoid each other. But has someone looked at me? Perhaps they've seen the pain on my face and feel pity. They might want to help me. But they can't -- not in New York. They can't even say hello. They'll go home feeling bad. I can't allow that. That's why I stop in front of the store window; I can see myself there. I can practice making my face look less pain-stricken: The eyes. The cheeks. The mouth. Can I grin?
I look away.
Cracks and scales on the building walls. Chips fall to the ground. One day all the buildings will be nothing but those chips and chunks on the ground. I've seen people fixing the streets, the sidewalks, but I've never seen them fixing the building. Perhaps they will… when the clock says the week has gone by and work on all the little bridges can continue.
-- Eau Claire, Wisconsin
Sept. 5, 1983
Revised Feb. 6, 2001