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Red numbers on the digital clock flash 5:45 PM. It’s evening.
Elijah cranes his head, his body threatening to succumb to its desire for sleep. He licks his chapped lips, the taste of metallic blood prominent between its cracks. His curtains are drawn; it’s been like this since the morning, he distantly notes. He twists his body, and the moonlight that breaks through a small crack in the fabric shines on his bare flesh. It paints him white, decorating his pale flesh like white paint on a blank canvas.
How long has he been ruminating, rotting in this bed?
His limbs feel heavy, a heavy weight that refuses to relent. It keeps him tied to the mattress, forever bound to its plush fabric. Although nowadays, it’s beginning to feel more like a rock against his back. His fingers twitch, a desire to reach out for something overcoming his senses. He’s not sure what it is that he wants, what he craves so desperately. He’s not sure if his mind is even his anymore.
Standards. How long has he spent living up to the expectations of those surrounding him?
He turns his head to look the other way, a blank wall greeting him. It doesn’t do much to offer him any comfort, no solace to be sought in its appearance. But Elijah thinks he can paint a picture there if he were to get up for once. What happened to his passion, anyway? He was meant to be an aspiring artist, one who could throw paint on a canvas and illustrate something so heartwrenching that everybody would come beckoning for a personal commission.
But oh, that’s right.
His hands were never good enough for the public; he couldn’t curate the masterpieces they desired. He couldn’t pick up a paintbrush and draw fluid strokes; he couldn’t achieve that level of perfection without rivalry. Even as a child, his passion had been undermined by that of a classmate. His paintings ranked second, always the silver medal boy. He curls his fingers, the ghostly feeling of a paintbrush in his hand remaining ever so present.
The light of his clock flickers once more.
Elijah can see it, how the brief flash of red seems to illuminate the entire room. It paints the walls a pale shade of its colour, and he can envision it properly now— a coyote and a dog. The dog is a representation of all things good, everything that’s soft, kind, and precious in the world. It represents innocence, the belief that all children hold, where they’re on top of the universe. However, the coyote will symbolize harm— the brutal truth, the jagged edges of the world. It is the piece of growing up that tears you to pieces with its sharp teeth.
He wonders what he did to make the coyote so, so angry with him.
The house is beginning to settle in. A low hum radiates throughout, bouncing off the walls and into his bedroom. It’s quiet, a background noise that Elijah barely registers as present. He doesn’t feel in tune with his body; he isn’t sure if he’s ever been. Levitating, flying above the world in its entirety. He feels like a planet drifting in and out of the light, feeling its beating heat against his back, then on his front.
It’s an equilibrium, something that he’s never achieved in his mortal life.
If he were a planet, criticism and praise would be balanced. They would simply cancel each other out. But here, roaming on Earth with his two left feet, he’s drowning under his desire to match society’s high expectations. Elijah twirls on his planetary axis, letting the sun’s light rays roast him like an animal. He craves an equal share of affection and critique, demanding that it course through his veins and restart his body.
He doesn’t think he deserves it, though.
There’s a knock on his door; it’s a familiar pattern that he’s grown to recognize long ago. The creak of a hinge, and the white, wooden rectangle swings open. He can feel himself being physically pulled back into his body from the solar system. Before him stands a figure who stands with his arms crossed and a concerned look on his face. Elijah simply blinks at him, a slow movement.
“How are you doing?” He inquires, his eyes raking over the expanse of Elijah’s frail body. There’s a twitch in the man’s eyebrows. Concern? Frustration? He can’t quite put his finger on it, but it’s not a positive emotion. “I haven’t seen you all day— have you come out to eat?” Elijah opens his mouth, the taste of grime remaining painfully prominent.
“Too tired,” he croaks. “‘M sorry, Ethan.” His voice is raspy, the lack of water catching up to his dry throat. When was the last time he drank a drop of water?
“Don’t say sorry.” He watches him with a look of pity.
That’s different. Elijah remembers when Ethan used to look at him with a smile, pride written all over his face as Elijah returned home with a newly painted canvas. He would clap him on the back, praising the artwork and making an effort to show the rest of their companions. When did that all change?
“I’ll go get you some water. Do you want food?” Ethan speaks with a careful tone— neither too loud nor too quiet. It’s a state of equilibrium, a balance that they’d both grown accustomed to long ago.
It started when Elijah first sank to his knees by the doorstep, curling into himself under the violent downpour of rain. Another art competition was lost to a person who demonstrated more talent than he. Ethan, in turn, had sat next to him, his voice soft enough to bring a sense of comfort and shield them both with an umbrella.
“Please,” he whispers. Ethan nods in acknowledgement, flashing him a smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes— Elijah realizes that it never does anymore.
And then, Ethan is gone. He turns on his heel and exits, the sound of his socked feet hitting the wooden floorboards echoing throughout the empty house. Elijah blinks, and for the first time in months, he realizes that Ethan’s been gone for a long time now. He curls his fingers, the ghostly presence of a paintbrush dancing on his fingertips.
His world had stopped turning when he lost his passion for art, his desire to create. But he never realized that he’d put a pause to the other planets as well. He had set the world off-course, disrupting the perfect equilibrium.
Elijah turns his head.
The clock reads 6:45 PM.