Twain Story
Matthew Ryan Fischer
Twain talked to Burke on a regular basis. Twain was his best
friend, his confidant, a trusted adviser. Twain knew all of Burke’s deep dark
thoughts. He was there when Burke stole his first candy bar. He was there when
Burke had done much worse. Twain knew everything about Burke’s life. He wasn’t
a prude and didn’t judge. He listened to Burke and accepted him for who he was.
The only problem was, that as far as Burke could tell, Twain did
not exist. Outside of Burke’s head that is. Inside Burke’s head, Twain was very
very real. Twain wasn’t an imaginary friend. Burke didn’t have visions or see
hallucinations or anything like that. At one point Burke had gone so far as to
get tested for a brain tumor. The test was negative. Twain survived. Burke
didn’t think that he was mad, but at the same time, he didn’t go around telling
people about Twain. Burke was no fool
and he wasn’t about to be judged for things he didn’t want to be judged for. He
had seen a psychiatrist for a brief time, but never once mentioned Twain.
Burke liked to imagine that Twain was a little man living inside
his head. He realized that human anatomy made this quite impossible. He still
liked the image though. He imagined that Twain looked like him, only smaller,
and would sit around and read Burke’s thoughts as if he was reading headlines
from the newspaper. He also thought that Twain would be wearing a smoking
jacket. He wasn’t sure if Twain could smoke inside his head or not, but if
anyone could figure out a way to do it, it might be Twain.
Burke assumed Twain was a friend. He acted like one. Burke never
thought to wonder what else he might be – an alien or demon, parasitic or
symbiotic. Burke was willingly ignorant.
Late and lonely, the thoughts came. The ideas. The suggestions.
The evil and despicable desires. There was a pain inside, a pain that had to
get out and be free. He wanted to break things. He wanted to bleed. He wanted
to do worse. It would be so easy to do worse. People are fragile things. They
break so easily. It would be so easy to make them break. To watch them break.
To do something to cause them to break. It was almost impossible not to do
these things. It seemed so straightforward and easy to do – these things that
were asking to be done. All it would take was some motivation and a little bit
of action.
He could hide it. He could keep it hidden. He was sure he could
keep it hidden and never be caught. He was smart. He was capable. And they
would never see it coming. He was sure.
The shadow soul was a dark and terrible thing. It inspired hate
and lust and all the base desires. It lived for the bleak and desperate
emotions. It ate them up and thrived. The shadow soul could possess and
control, but there was no fun in that. The shadow soul liked its food with a
twist. It hinted. It suggested. It pushed. It set things up and let them take
their natural course. It was smart. It was tricky. It could do whatever it
wanted and get whatever it needed.
Burke slept a lot. He didn’t realize it at first. He slept more
and more. He hurt and ached but wasn’t sure why. He was curious, but not
alarmed. He assumed everything was all right and didn’t think too hard. Part of
the way it worked was a willing ignorance and apathy. Burke turned a blind eye
and subconsciously convinced himself to act as if everything was fine.
Twain was tired of sleeping. Twain wanted so many things out of
life and he was determined to get them. Twain didn’t care if Burke got what he
wanted or not. Twain was only concerned with Twain.
Burke slept and time passed and Twain made his own plans. Burke
was blind and never saw what was happening – Twain wasn’t willing to settle for
inner life anymore, he wanted everything, and he was determined to get it.
No comments:
Post a Comment