The Membrane by Bianca Butler
Senior Short Story entry
I wish I had stayed there. Time and time again, I just lie still and wish, wistfully and in vain, that I could go back. Not go back; no, that’s not what I wish. I wish I had stayed there. I wish I had never come out in the first place. Even if I could go back, it wouldn’t be the same. I know too much now.
It was safe there. It was an odd place to live, warm and somewhat liquid. It was always quiet. I must have sat there for years, drifting in a sea of indescribable feelings. My eyes were closed, but still I could see. You don’t need to have eyes to see when you’re there. One thing I remember clearly: the membrane. It was a soft, tangible, translucent veil that separated me from a world beyond imagination. Through that membrane, I saw everything. There were colours; colours that don’t exist in the world I know now. There were celestial fountains; waterfalls laced with stars and twilight, that perpetually fell, surrounding me and embracing me. Through the membrane I saw people. Yet they were not the people I know now. They mustn’t have been people at all, come to think of it. They must have been angels. I can tell, because people are not like these beings were. These beings – these angels – were kind. They smiled. They welcomed. They loved. When they reached out to me, I felt safe. I felt wanted. Now I can only dream of them. I dream of the people I saw through the membrane. I pray that they were real. I pray that they are real. I pray that I can find them.
I should never have left. The day I let go of the membrane, my life ended. My world changed. It was cold, it was hard, and I was alone. I closed my eyes again and again, hoping that I would find myself there once more. I reached out and tried to touch the membrane, but it was gone. As time went by, some things became clear. I learned that a strange feeling comes over you; a deep, painful yearning from inside. I cannot explain how I knew this feeling was hunger. I simply knew. I learned that there is no cure for this feeling. Nothing can take it away. It just grows and grows until either it consumes you or you become numb to it. I came to recognise another feeling; another kind of desire. My body would tingle, and reach out spasmically, trying to feel something like itself. What a foolish desire. I learned that the only answer to this craving is pain. All that happens when I cry out for this attention is this: there is a moment of contact, then a sudden flood of agony sears through my body, then a warm, wet liquid oozes from the point where I was touched. Touch causes pain. I am stupid to desire it.
I lie here now, in the cold and the noise, wishing I could go back to where I came from. I am not welcome here. One thing I have come to understand: it is better to live, not knowing you are hated, than to exist, knowing you are tolerated. I wish I could go back. There was no hunger there; no pain. The membrane was my security.
I feel a strange material in my hands. It covers my body. It is big; it is warm. It holds a kind of familiarity. I pull at it. I pull it up until it covers me entirely. I cannot see out. It is warm now. I feel something inside me begin to fight, but soon it ceases. My eyes begin to close. The strange vibration in my chest starts to slow. I can see colour again; colour that I have not seen since I left the membrane behind. I see stars exploding and raining around me. I see an angel reach out to me. She whispers to me to sleep. As I feel the cold, hard world around me fade away, I stare out at the membrane. I am never coming back. I am going home.
It was safe there. It was an odd place to live, warm and somewhat liquid. It was always quiet. I must have sat there for years, drifting in a sea of indescribable feelings. My eyes were closed, but still I could see. You don’t need to have eyes to see when you’re there. One thing I remember clearly: the membrane. It was a soft, tangible, translucent veil that separated me from a world beyond imagination. Through that membrane, I saw everything. There were colours; colours that don’t exist in the world I know now. There were celestial fountains; waterfalls laced with stars and twilight, that perpetually fell, surrounding me and embracing me. Through the membrane I saw people. Yet they were not the people I know now. They mustn’t have been people at all, come to think of it. They must have been angels. I can tell, because people are not like these beings were. These beings – these angels – were kind. They smiled. They welcomed. They loved. When they reached out to me, I felt safe. I felt wanted. Now I can only dream of them. I dream of the people I saw through the membrane. I pray that they were real. I pray that they are real. I pray that I can find them.
I should never have left. The day I let go of the membrane, my life ended. My world changed. It was cold, it was hard, and I was alone. I closed my eyes again and again, hoping that I would find myself there once more. I reached out and tried to touch the membrane, but it was gone. As time went by, some things became clear. I learned that a strange feeling comes over you; a deep, painful yearning from inside. I cannot explain how I knew this feeling was hunger. I simply knew. I learned that there is no cure for this feeling. Nothing can take it away. It just grows and grows until either it consumes you or you become numb to it. I came to recognise another feeling; another kind of desire. My body would tingle, and reach out spasmically, trying to feel something like itself. What a foolish desire. I learned that the only answer to this craving is pain. All that happens when I cry out for this attention is this: there is a moment of contact, then a sudden flood of agony sears through my body, then a warm, wet liquid oozes from the point where I was touched. Touch causes pain. I am stupid to desire it.
I lie here now, in the cold and the noise, wishing I could go back to where I came from. I am not welcome here. One thing I have come to understand: it is better to live, not knowing you are hated, than to exist, knowing you are tolerated. I wish I could go back. There was no hunger there; no pain. The membrane was my security.
I feel a strange material in my hands. It covers my body. It is big; it is warm. It holds a kind of familiarity. I pull at it. I pull it up until it covers me entirely. I cannot see out. It is warm now. I feel something inside me begin to fight, but soon it ceases. My eyes begin to close. The strange vibration in my chest starts to slow. I can see colour again; colour that I have not seen since I left the membrane behind. I see stars exploding and raining around me. I see an angel reach out to me. She whispers to me to sleep. As I feel the cold, hard world around me fade away, I stare out at the membrane. I am never coming back. I am going home.
posted by Jess @ 12:51 PM
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