The Week’ness

Hands resting against the inside of his legs, leaning into himself, the folded figure of a deflated silhouette rest amongst the concrete steps. The yellow globes and street lights peaked through the window, catching deep eyes- shut and quiet, as if on purpose; closed off against anything that might or could approach. He was struck down by the density of being lost amongst the various personalities inside, with doubt winning and creeping into the vault of his mind like vines up a concrete wall-overcoming the fixture that’s walls were built to beat all the elements.

He felt exhausted. His anger was low-but close to him. His veins pulsed through his forearms and all lay motionless around him. The night was still, like he, crouched in the middle of a concrete stairwell.

The sounds approaching outside didn’t phase his demeanour, when usually it made him alert. The noises approaching to the bundled over figure got closer, bit by bit- yet he didn’t move from his crouched over position across 3 different stairs. Legs outstretched, hands inside, hair in face-eyes hidden.

The stairwell opened, a broad figure appeared and entered the stairwell. He wore a cap to cover his grey hair, slightly frail but his figure was strong. He had power but seemed vulnerable entering the unknown space. He hadn’t been here before. An eagle rested peacefully on his shoulder, eagerly looking around as if unbothered to be inside. The old man entered cautiously, approaching the silhouette who didn’t alter upon the close quarters of the stairwell now having a new figure, so close together.

The figure slowly began to look up, revealing a slight snarl which glistened against the light peering through from above. The old man recognised the figure, they had met before. He knew who was in the room-

“You shouldn’t be like this.”

His voice was deep, strong and didn’t waver amongst the uncertainty of the situation.

The figure continued to look at the old man, his deep eyes staring straight at the old man, slightly trying to intimidate him as light draped across half his face. He remembered him instantly, and felt no need to feel threatened; even slightly calmer to see familiarity. It had been awhile. The old man spoke again-

“I know you.

I know your blood.

You’re not like this-stand up-”

The figure didn’t break a stare, his eyes now burning with the potential of rage and ready to roar. It spoke for him.

“STAND UP, FIX YOURSELF” He roared at the slumped figure.

The figure broke a smile, exposing a dimple to the side of his mouth. The frail old man had distracted his mood, albeit briefly.

The figure looked the old man right in the eye, and began to speak.

“I’m not going to fight you old man, why are you here?”

The old man changed his stature, he began to puff his chest and you could see the calm reply wasn’t expected-

“Who have you become?

I have seen the things who fell before you.”

He paused.

“I know what built you. I’ve seen your eyes change before. I know the anger you have. I know the power you possess. I know how you feel.”

-he paused, before exploding

“I KNOW WHERE IT COMES FROM”

The figure grew livid, he saw the old mans eyes. He felt his blood boil. The helpless feeling consumed him, that the old man who he began to feel had disappeared for good, who appeared to not know him anymore- was right. He watched him cough, as the anger had worn him down. It was a distinctive noise.

The figure stood up. He felt tall, yet kept eye level with the old man. They were about the same height.

“Don’t do this to yourself. The war isn’t on anyone but inside, it’s you against you. When you realise your worst enemy is yourself, you won’t lose again.”

The figure soaked in the close range, he wasn’t used to feeling less than what he was capable of. Doubt never crept into his mind. His walls were on the verge of being broken down.

“Don’t forget who built you. Your eyes have not changed what they see, but only how they see it.”

The figures eyes glistened, as his teeth snarled towards the old man. The power had shifted. The sentence clicked a trigger that blew up inside of his chest. The memories screamed at him, reminding him of who he knew to be. He felt the reflections come back. He grew more attentive to the noises outside the stairwell. The words out loud were released, yet they only reminded him of how much control came from within. The perspective was back. The power was back. The confidence. The strength felt undefeatable. The concrete wall does not lose to the vines.

The old man slowly exhaled, briefly leaning forward, as if drained by poison spilled from his own anger with the figure, who mostly stayed silent towards him.

The figure helped the old man get more comfortable on the stairs, their roles now reversed. He looked down at the old man, now struggling with energy.

Does his heart not pump blood, and do his hands not get cold? Why would his values not be as real as the words he spoke? The fire burned within, and like a shot of adrenalin, he was ready to leave the confines of the stairwell.

Suddenly, his eyes opened. How could something seem more real when his eyes were shut? The purpose of the conversation prevailed, even if the words weren’t actually spoken. The stairwell was empty. The figure snarled, grabbing the door handle with ferocity and ripping it off the hinges with rage, breaking it for the sake of reminding himself of the power. What a luxury it was to feel this, given the moments he had almost lost it. Never again.

C.f