Review till death

Published on: May 1st, 2016 | Genre: surrealist fiction
by Ethan Lesley CC | © All rights reserved.

I wandered into a movie theater. Typical set up: comfortable reclining red chairs, people split into groups according to acquaintances. The lights were on yet there was nothing on the white sheet, except static.

I walked in a hurry, down the aisle, until I recognized them, or at least some of them: my friends, some doctors, relaxed faces, forgotten peers, all huddled together and checking out a familiar grey folder that contained my drawings and pen sketches. Some of them had serious gazes while some laughed, clearly enjoying the entries. Couldn’t exactly make out which made which noise even though the light burned bright above us.

I leaned closer and remained unnoticed. Had this feeling I was invisible. Perhaps I was. I couldn’t remember how I felt about this level of stealth; just that I could get used to it. I have to confess, I laughed a bit, too, at my entries, writings… yet for the love of the gods I could not remember what might have been so amusing. Was it me? Were my drawings really that bad? Or were they delightful? I asked myself these, years after remembering.

Then, I felt a pang, a consciousness, a realization; I was invaded. I didn’t give anyone permission to check out my slides. But I did nothing to stop them.

There was this loud thud coming from the entrance, which only I seemed to have noticed. I shifted my look quick to what was there.

Nothing. Just an open door, with only fluorescent lighting and a welcoming smog outside.

Faced again the people who were checking my life’s work, and saw them leaving their seats. They were finished checking me out, probably having done and made up their minds about me: who I am or, at least, who I was. I don’t remember why I didn’t stop them from going.

I was alone with my feet rooted on the ground; smiling, dazed and confused. I looked below to the empty chair. Curiously. the folder that contained so much detailed work – of my past, present, my dreams, aspirations – was then empty. Blank pages scattered on the floor, just waiting to be picked up and, perhaps, scribbled on.

I was alone, but I could not remember if I felt cold, or happy, or solemn, or numb. I could breathe, but to what extent?

So I turned my head back towards the entrance, and called for the only person who, at that time, showed the most concern for my well-being.

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