The Prize
A story by Cal Carvey, Year 11.
Fluorescent streams and an incessant buzzing fly overhead. War drums seem to bang in my chest cavity, echoing around a vast space, as I glide through doorway after doorway after doorway. There is a pungent smell of death lingering around each corridor where empty beds lay with fresh sheets. They are as pale as the carcasses that used to occupy them. I am drenched in blood. It is not my own.
* * *
I remember how you used to play with my hair. We'd collapse in dew-dropped meadows and let the weight of the world melt off our exhausted bodies. We would gossip about our other friends, for they were jealous; purely additions onto our own idyllic relationship. Nonetheless, I worshipped the mere memory of those late afternoons. The simplicity of having someone by my side was overwhelming in the fact that I had what everyone else wanted: a friend. I used to tell you my aspirations, your pale green eyes would glisten, and your delicate ginger brows would furrow with concentration. It was like you didn't want to miss a word of what I had to say. It had taken you a long time to realise that I would do anything for you. But you figured it out in the end, didn't you?
I knew when you gave me the box - “the prize”, you called it - that you’d changed. Those enthralling orbs of serenity had become milky and warped. Your crumpled brows had snapped together, as though there was a welcomed darkness behind them that needed to be protected. Your lips turned upward at the edges, ever so slightly, when you handed it to me. The box was a sickening plain brown block in my clammy hands. It had been wrapped in ordinary greaseproof paper, but your smile, that deafening smile, told me it was more than that. I noticed, because I used to notice everything about you.
A flash of red, not exactly streamlined, but perfect for it’s intended purpose. It was ideal for everyday commuters, connoisseurs of the tarmacked highway to, well, Hell. However, “the prize” wasn’t a new-kindled love for public transport. No, you loved the idea of all the flesh and meat clinging onto bones, encased in thin metal walls, like a supermarket’s own brand of sardines, sitting in the bottom of the fridge, opened, putrefying in its own juices. You gushed over your vision of silvery screams.
“Quickly!” you squealed, “Excited?” The instructions were slammed into my palm as I let out a dishevelled “yep”. I had 30 seconds to read. The tyres halted, a piercing squeal let loose. Doors slammed open. It felt like looking through misted glass, a broken mirror. I knew what you wanted me to do. The prize was a surprise. An enigma wrapped in a little bow and parcel paper. You asked me to shout, scream it, when I threw the box onto the bus.
“Surprise.”
* * *
Repeating sirens, a clamour of concerned voices and muffled enquires are not drowning the piercing shrill that echoes in my clouded, pulsating mind. I am digging my broken, wet, fingertips into my temple, hoping to scratch out the templated sentences she asked me to say. I am trying to push out the memories of those late afternoons and replace you with a monster. I glide through doorway after doorway after doorway. I am drenched in blood; it is yours.
* * *
I remember how you used to play with my hair. We'd collapse in dew-dropped meadows and let the weight of the world melt off our exhausted bodies. We would gossip about our other friends, for they were jealous; purely additions onto our own idyllic relationship. Nonetheless, I worshipped the mere memory of those late afternoons. The simplicity of having someone by my side was overwhelming in the fact that I had what everyone else wanted: a friend. I used to tell you my aspirations, your pale green eyes would glisten, and your delicate ginger brows would furrow with concentration. It was like you didn't want to miss a word of what I had to say. It had taken you a long time to realise that I would do anything for you. But you figured it out in the end, didn't you?
I knew when you gave me the box - “the prize”, you called it - that you’d changed. Those enthralling orbs of serenity had become milky and warped. Your crumpled brows had snapped together, as though there was a welcomed darkness behind them that needed to be protected. Your lips turned upward at the edges, ever so slightly, when you handed it to me. The box was a sickening plain brown block in my clammy hands. It had been wrapped in ordinary greaseproof paper, but your smile, that deafening smile, told me it was more than that. I noticed, because I used to notice everything about you.
A flash of red, not exactly streamlined, but perfect for it’s intended purpose. It was ideal for everyday commuters, connoisseurs of the tarmacked highway to, well, Hell. However, “the prize” wasn’t a new-kindled love for public transport. No, you loved the idea of all the flesh and meat clinging onto bones, encased in thin metal walls, like a supermarket’s own brand of sardines, sitting in the bottom of the fridge, opened, putrefying in its own juices. You gushed over your vision of silvery screams.
“Quickly!” you squealed, “Excited?” The instructions were slammed into my palm as I let out a dishevelled “yep”. I had 30 seconds to read. The tyres halted, a piercing squeal let loose. Doors slammed open. It felt like looking through misted glass, a broken mirror. I knew what you wanted me to do. The prize was a surprise. An enigma wrapped in a little bow and parcel paper. You asked me to shout, scream it, when I threw the box onto the bus.
“Surprise.”
* * *
Repeating sirens, a clamour of concerned voices and muffled enquires are not drowning the piercing shrill that echoes in my clouded, pulsating mind. I am digging my broken, wet, fingertips into my temple, hoping to scratch out the templated sentences she asked me to say. I am trying to push out the memories of those late afternoons and replace you with a monster. I glide through doorway after doorway after doorway. I am drenched in blood; it is yours.