A piece of flash fiction inspired from Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s real-life inspiration behind The Idiot.
Light. The beads of sweat trickling down from the top of the forehead, covering the face, just enough to wake him up. The eyelashes dance like bouncers outside a bar, making sure they get the little beads out of his sight. Particles of light enter his eye every time he opens them to catch a glimpse of what he was being subjected to. Secondary beats to his main beat, light is in sync with his eyelids.
He blinks. He misses. He opens his eye without the constant shutting being an obstacle. He sees what he has only been catching glimpses of. It is a room. For a second, his vision is restricted to a keyhole like a vignette. The offbeat has strayed off course from the main beat.
He blinks. He is in a classroom. Fading sounds of mathematical addition are being subverted by his hearing senses. He looks around. The class has desks that are devoid of the spectre of any kind. The teacher strikes him like a ray of light badgering his eye. A vision. Two plus Two. Beat. Beat. Sixth Second.
He blinks. He is lying on top of a girl. The noise echoing the room like a sigh of relief after every row of a boat, he looks down; light with the girth of a sewing needle pierces his eye: its source, the machinery responsible for creation. Stroke. Stroke. Sigh. Moan. Beat. Blink.
The black from the chalkboard that played canvas to his addition lessons have now engulfed his plethora of pleasure. Blink. White light has now taken over his eyes. He sees a man, himself, running away from his line of sight. Every step the man took, away from his eye, the light grew bigger. The light formed the silhouette of a woman, his cushion, whom he has been after. Blink.
With every step the man took, the silhouette grew smaller. Thud, thud. Step. Step. Lighting. Roots of a tree growing inside him, from his feet to the top of his forehead, the impact — shattering; lightning struck. A flash. He looked around. He was back in the same bed, where he was overcome with the same platitude of pleasure that he seemed to be going after.
This time, the girl was next to him. He could see as far as his eye could conjure. It was a ceiling. He could feel impulses of light in him; the same ones that lightning made him feel. A flash of light. He had just seen his life play out in front of his eyes.
Synesthesia didn’t spare him even as he lay there pleading for his last breath. The light was a stand-in for everything he couldn’t feel. His life was a series of stop motion images where silhouettes had replaced figures and varying levels of RGB values traversed between the blacks and whites of emotion that had been stripped off of him.
Flash. Blink. Black.