The Response

The Response - by Kevin Kraemer

The alarm clock has read 3:46am for the last twenty minutes. All the world is asleep and he is there, still, staring at his bluish glowing monitor in the dark, chilly room. The air conditioner has been blowing directly on his face, but he has neither the motivation nor the strength to reach over and turn it off. Soft, but angry music seeps out of the speakers and rides the walls around him like a carousel; spinning and fading out like a sparkler on the fourth of July. His eyes droop, however he feels no need to rest. The overactive thoughts he plays with in his mind cause the insomnia and the disturbing peacefulness. The window shade on the window across from the desk where he sits, hunched over, is open widely. A spotlight shines brightly from the expansive murder black sky and reflects from his haunted brown eyes as he glances out. Reflected with the light are also his passions and discomforts; colors begin to dance among the blackness of the room as he falls slowly from his chair and onto the floor with a surprisingly thunderous crash. His eyes remain open and unblinking. Images appear projected on the ceiling, no longer hidden behind his eyes and held back by his eyelids. Five tickets excluding the sixth person. A dark blue night sky is accommodating a sole star dimly twinkling. A room filled with smiles, laughter, and excitement is refracted from a reserved boys thick glasses, smudged with tears. "These are the best times of your life," he has been told. "Live it up. Enjoy your life. Have fun." These words echo as the theatre curtain closes on the beige ceiling above him. "Be yourself." But it is hard to be something so different from normal.

© October 2005