A Torment
More items for my collection arrived today in the post. Lots of colours and shapes. There was one letter which I have not added to my collection yet, though. The postmark struck me more than anything. I think I know who the letter is from, and that’s what makes it interesting. I put it on my window ledge so that I can, maybe, open it sometime. Sometime soon. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it.
Those who had met Grisha in the past described encounters with him as insufferably intense. Any questions that he did not wish to answer were rebuffed with a resolute defiance only found in the most strong-minded (or mad) men. His intensity only ever waned when we was looking out of his bedroom window. This ritualised act was how he connected with the outside world. From behind glass, and hidden from view behind a mass of curtains, Grisha shaped his own view of reality. His demeanour would change, and he would seemingly become calm and reflective.
Occasionally his eyes would wander and catch sight of the piles of yellowing envelopes, dusty magazines, torn leaflets that lined edges of the room. He hated it all, yet he was not willing to do anything about it. It was there to be both ignored and hated. Grisha took delight in simultaneously ignoring and hating.
I opened the letter from the window ledge today. I swiped away a dead fly in the process. It was annoying me. Can you imagine the absurdity of being a dead fly? I suppose it is better than being a fly that is alive. Or perhaps it is pure bliss. Perhaps ignorance of our own existence is the answer to happiness and contentment. How would I know?
I won’t bother to paint a picture of how I opened the letter. I may have held it in my hand for several minutes while concentrating on its form. I may have sat down carefully to open it in quiet solemnitude. I may have taken great care to slice open the envelope at its fold without damaging its pristine face. I may have done all of these things.
I opened it. I read it. I discarded it.
In actuality, I did not need to read it. I knew it was a hoax as soon as I saw the first few lines. It was a court summons, feigned of course. A practical joke of some friend or enemy. (What’s the difference?) I laughed a little. I crumpled up the paper and ripped up the envelope with great satisfaction, adding it to my collection.
Hang on, I just heard the letterbox…
Well, here is a fresh letter which I can place upon the window ledge, and more items to add to my collection.
It was well past midday before Grisha stirred from his comatose state the next day. While he was sleeping, I took a closer look at him. Yes, I peered right at him.
Grisha was a skeletal being. He had a hooked nose that he had inherited from his mother, tight lips that he had inherited from his father, and grey, deathly skin that he had inherited from his environment.
He never had any friends. He was outrageously arrogant. Of course, Grisha never saw himself as others saw him. I did at times wish he was dead.
But I seem to have slipped into the past tense. Do not panic, Grisha is very much still alive. Were you thinking otherwise, friend? Do you mind if I call you friend?
I have glanced at yesterday’s journal entry. What ramblings! All drivel of course, but I do make myself laugh at times. Most entertaining.
Before I forget, I must quote a singularly hilarious line from the letter I received yesterday. I opened it this morning. It said, “Your mother is gravely ill. Please attend the family home forthwith to assist with necessary arrangements. Repeated attempts to contact you have…”
What rubbish! Junk, as the Americans would say. A hoax, of course, from the same fiend who sent the last one. Cleverly done, I must admit. Impressive looking headed paper with a noble attempt at a watermark of authenticity. The use of “gravely” and “forthwith” had me in fits of laughter. What kind of language is that for official correspondence? Nonsense. Of course, I know my mother is not ill, that goes without saying. She is fine. She is fine. I am fine.
Today Grisha received a letter from his father. It is not important how I know that. Even now, as I write this, I cannot stop laughing. I overheard the letter being delivered along with a barrage of junk mail. It was a deliciously exciting moment. It was posted through his door with a loud clatter. He hated the postman. So did I, as it happens.
The letter stated that his mother was seriously ill, dying. As expected, he thought it was a joke. I knew him too well. I knew he wouldn’t read past the first few lines. Of course you must have realised by now that I composed the lines myself! It makes me want to burst with laughter again.
I struggle perpetually with this existence, this being. I have been told to get more sleep. I do not believe getting more rest is an answer to the problem. One does not solve a linguistic puzzle with arithmetic. The solution is on a different plane to that of simplistic routines and trite recommendations.
The last two weeks are a blank. I am jolted at the thought of the days, hours, seconds that have vanished. In the last hour I have experienced a lifetime. Do not attempt to understand my writings. I myself do not even understand that of which I write.
I have chemicals searing through my veins, simultaneously invigorating and destroying my organs. Of what can I write that is not utterly unintelligible? I can see fragments that may be possible to describe. I shall write of these.
I am being buried by words and pictures, scraps and shards, falling. In my room, buried. I can no longer see my window. My window is gone. The colours and shapes have covered my window. I am buried. I can only remember fragments. The fragments are disappearing. I thought they would linger, but I am mistaken.
There is nothing left.
Grisha dreamed in bright, headache-inducing colour that night. His morning did not arrive. Instead of forcing him to endure the pain of reconciling reality with absurdity, his mind spared him further torment.
I felt no pity for him. I enjoyed tormenting him. Consider this my confession and my transcendent admission of guilt. Of course, I will not stay bored for long.
I have now assumed his identity and I have my next victim in sight, friend.
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