The Quiet Place

The Quiet Place

             It was at the end of my sophomore year in the High School auditorium where 1,000 anxious students were supposed to sit still while being crammed together in a space equivalent to my living room. It was the day of the annual awards ceremony; a school tradition of the ennoblement of those with the best grades. That year like every year faculty separates one person from each grade for the “title,” and they would stand above everyone else in such a manner to say in essence, “I am exceptional. I have reached the highest peak. Admire me.” The lesser students would look up at those faces with envy and with a little shame, always wondering if one day they too would stand in that spotlight. The teachers rose in unison, all eyes on the chosen ones. The clapping began slowly and started into a quiet rolling thunder that reverberated throughout the auditorium. Then the flashing of cameras went off one by one like an endless series of illuminations that would give any normal person a headache on their best day. As the superstars stood there smiling broadly, soaking in all the praise, I stood in silence: forgotten and irrelevant. Was I the only one who felt this way?

             I couldn’t remember the next few minutes when everyone started to funnel off the stage. However, I found myself outside walking towards a place where only I reigned supreme. A domain that was quiet, dark, and serene, consisting of a bench and a lamp post. The lamp post was incandescent and never once went out. The light which shined from it was gentle and gave the dark place a tranquil atmosphere. Adjacent to the lamp post stood an old bench: fashioned from mahogany and made to look like something from art nouveau ever-changing, always growing. Each time I would sit on the bench I would feel like I would disappear and time around me would stand still. This was my safe haven from the outside world. An Escape. I could’ve stayed in that place for a long time and no one would turn their head my direction.

             At one point that day, however, the comfort of escapism wore off, and my mind started to wander. As if in a trance my uncertainty translated into questions: Who am I? What is my purpose? Where am I supposed to be? The tranquil atmosphere began to wane. I suddenly came back to consciousness to see a young woman beside me on the very same bench as I. She looked lost and helpless, only wearing a black dress and a red hat that would further illuminate the dark realm. Her lips twitched, and with it a question: “Sir, do you happen to know why I exist?” she asked.

             I froze, for I knew that no matter what answer I would give it would not be enough, but then I responded: “I dare not say, for I don’t know the answer to that myself.”

             “My mother would tell me that eventually each of us would find meaning,” she said in a graceful tone, “but, no matter what I do, people can’t see me”. After some moments she needlingly asked, “do you know how that feels?”

             “Actually, I do,” I said sympathetically. I continued, “Every day I come to this place to disappear because I’m forgotten in the real world,” and after a minute I then said, “I’ve always been invisible.”

             “Has it been hard for you?” she asked.

             I paused before I spoke and looked towards the lamp post which bathed me in warm light. I couldn’t remember the last time someone asked me how I felt. It was new and strange for me, but at the same time comforting. A tear trailed down my face in relief from my hardships, I then replied: “yes”.

             “Don’t you think it’s strange?” she asked while looking at the ground, and after a pause then said, “The world can be at times so pleasant, yet so cruel,” she continued. “When I felt that everyone I knew started to forget about me that was when I started to question the point of living.”

             “It’s hard feeling insignificant,” I respond dejectedly.

             The young woman rested her head on the back of the bench and closed her eyes. With a soft and meaningful voice, she said: “I guess everyone feels invisible sometimes don’t they?” She then slowly proceeded to get up and brush her clothes off.

             “Are you leaving?” I asked.

             She turned to me and delicately said, “No.” she then lifted her hand out to me and said, “Together we can be seen”.

Headlights

Grubb, Ben. "Australian Government Offers $50m toward Bionic Eye Effort."ITnews. Nextmedia, 2 June 2009. Web. 23 Jan. 2015

"Peach rings?"

"Yes of course, peach rings!" He had once told me. "When I was just about your age, I used to sit on the edge of the sidewalk for hours, scraping the pit of the peach against the floor until it was perfectly round. Then, I just took out the inside of the pit and voila! I had myself a perfect peach ring."

He was the only person I wanted to talk to as we sat in the living room of my grandparents' apartment; I could sit and listen to him tell me stories for hours. My grandfather was not one for great speeches, he was in fact a fairly quiet man; but with me it was different. He always talked to me.  

***

We arrived to the intensive care unit of the Otamendi Hospital.

"How old is she?"

"16."

I looked down and tried to hide my face, as if the young nurse were to see right through my father's white lies and into my real age. She looked at me suspiciously. I am sure she knew from the start that I was in fact younger than I claimed. She looked back into the empty corridor, then back at us; she sighed.

"Follow me."

My father knew exactly where the room was, but that day was really not the day for discussions. The corridor was dead silent, ironically. My feet felt heavy as we walked down the crystal clean, white hallway. I clutched my left fist as hard as I could. It was freezing. I looked up at my father, his expression unstirred, anyone who did not know him would think he was just buried deep in thought; but unfortunately, his eyes told me otherwise. The usual radiant, grayish-blue color was now washed away by countless days of sorrow. His look was empty, vacant.

We stopped at a pristine white door with a golden handle on it. Disregarding its spotlessness, the door seemed rather uninviting, perhaps because of what it was holding inside. Hesitatingly, the nurse turned the handle and slowly opened the door to a regular sized hospital room, a white rectangular bed, and my grandfather.

"You all have the same eyes" said the nurse, with a tone of compassion in her voice. She then turned around and left the same way we came in, shutting the white door behind her.

We sat beside the bed in a complete silence that was only interrupted by the intermittent beeping sound of the machines monitoring his heart. Suddenly, without a warning, my grandfather opened his eyes. They were two beams of blue light, like two headlights, pouring onto every corner of the room and drenching us in that warmth I had yearned for so long. The medics said his look was due to the morphine, but I knew that not even a tidal wave of analgesics and sedatives could produce that gaze; it was something different, more abstract. I felt a weight lifting off my shoulders when I realized that this was the first time I saw my grandfather, I wouldn't say happy, but at peace. The two headlights that had first illuminated the wall opposite the bed slowly turned my way, scanning me all over and finally resting on my own eyes. I don't know how much time passed until I felt the urgency to be with my grandfather, alone; I knew this was the last time. As my father left the room I could feel my heart beating inside my head, I took a deep breath. I opened my left hand, which I was clutching so hard, to reveal a small, brown ring. It was not nearly as glamorous as my grandfather had described it; but it was the best I could do. I looked at the hands which had once held me up and close to his chest that now lied defeated by his sides; I took his delicate hand and, without saying a word, slowly slipped the peach ring onto his pinkie finger. The tracheotomy had taken away his speech, but as he laid eyes on the small circlet, he raised his right hand and I felt the warmth of his touch on my cheek, I looked into his kind and welcoming face and I knew exactly what he wanted to say. And as he slowly put his hand down again, the lights went off and I heard a single, long, and interminable beep.