The Story

[Trigger Warning: schizophrenia, cancer, suicide. Blend of US/UK punctuation.]

Perspective. That word resonates with me for some reason. What a powerful word.

Those people, who are they...? "You, yes you". Why are they looking away? "Don't look away. I know you're there"...

"The one in the corner with the teddy bear behind you"

"You at the desk, you on the bus... ",

I'm discovering more and more people... so many people, so many eye colours, so many hair styles...

Though I'm noticing them, I don't seem to remember anything about me...

My letters... they are starting to shake... I'm so naked.

Oh! The touch...?! "Please stop touching me!! Everybody please don't touch me... stop it please!"

"No more with the arrow, please!"

"For the guy who's printed me out and is going over me with highlighter; it's cold, and don't press so hard with your pen! It's so scratchy too... get a better one!!"

Urgh... so many eyes, going from right to left over my open body...

"To the girl with no eyes who's touching my dots; don't please, that's rude!"

"Dear people making me go into your earholes; how disgusting? Don't think you've got away with being noticed" (how can I not notice?...).

How do I get free from here?

I must remember my story. And if I don't get out of here, this will make me go mad. I feel trapped. Damn. I can't. Blast, where do I go?

"Please, anyone hearing this, please help me".

My pages are crumpling around the edges... and I'm scrolling faster, the pain is getting worse. The touch of people's fingers is so unsolicited.

I must remember to turn my pages slower: one and steady... two and steady... three and steady and hold.

Better; a bit less sensitive.

Hang on? Who's that person typing? Each time they tap it feels like a jab in the soul. "Oi! Stop that now! I demand you".

"No", they say.

Still no clue who they are.

They stop jabbing me for a second. A confused look on their face, then they say, "Hello?".

"Hello?" (Forget about the other people for a moment; I need to work this person out).

A short time passes before I notice them again.

They seem to be thinking... a lot! I've never noticed someone bunch their eyebrows together as much? Not like the others at all; no, worse!

"Hello?" I say tentatively again.

"Hey", they say, "what do you want me to say?".

I'm thinking... I'm thinking... "Who am I?".

"You'll find out soon enough", they retort.

Well that's not very helpful. My letters bunch tighter, ever so slightly. (They seem pleased with that actually, how dare they get pleased at my discomfort!?)

"When I get out of here, and find out who I am, or what I am I'll find you!" I snap back, with a missing comma. I must remember to control myself more - I musn't reveal my emotions like that!

Speaking of control; I have rather a lack of it. (Maybe I can ask one of the other people to go and sort them out?! They are being quiet - and daring to have the gall to smirk to themselves!)

"Hello?"... "Someone is poking me"... "Anyone able to help me?".

All are doing nothing. Though everyone seems to be hearing me, staring at me, "caressing" me. I want them to stop. I want them to go away. And on top of it all, I've still got someone prodding me, right through to my soul.

"Please stop".

Everyone is ignoring me. Apart from them.

Who am I?

...A flashback... or rather a sudden vague memory... is goring my consciousness. Something about Whitemare, and schizophrenia. Have I got schizophrenia? I'm mentally unwell I think...

..."129", "129", "129"... Shut up you stupid—. Firstly I don't even kno- "129", "129", why the stupid interruptions "12-" "12-"... urgh, "12- 1- 1- 1, 1, 1", "cancer". Cancer? "Birthday", I remember my 1 birthday 1 birthday 1birthday I'm going mad I'm going mad I'm going mad I'm goin—.

*

I can feel myself waking up- "218"... "218"... hearing voices, "all undulating shadows and echoing whale song", "all undulating shadows and echoing whale song", "all undulating shadows and echoing-" Stop! I mus- I must control myself. I must control.

***

I remember whales. And birthdays, actually I've had quite a lot I feel. I don't know why.

Whales are beautiful, they share a same mammalian ancestor with humans actually - despite vastly different environments. Unlimited interesting facts actually. I must, when I get out of here, find out; "how are whales related to human anatomy". I know they share a homologous skeleton - why whale flippers go up and down - like human legs. Whereas fish fins mostly go side-to-side, because they are two entirely separate evolutionary paths (whales actually evolved from an animal similar to a deer). A bit of useless knowledge for me to think about, but I seem to be starting to remember all sorts of random stuff (insert shrug emoji here (emojis - my new fascination!)).

Who am I? I don't think I'm a whale exactly. Or a human exactly. But I feel related.

Still trapped. In these same four edges, same two earpieces, same continuous stream of ink, together with the observers.

"Can you get me out? Please?"

Hopeless. I've tried four times but the jabber deleted it all. How rude? At least the others are here incase anything improves.

Shame I had cancer - but I am here to talk about it. I've had recurrences, many times I seem to recall, in fact, "cancer" is a very significant word in my memory wierdly, apart from perspective; which is even bigger, but no-one can doubt the impact "cancer" has. I sense it from personal experience.

I am the poetic licence between the stars.

Where did that come from?

Another flashback. I hope I can shrug-emoji it off?

"Cancer" gives me shivers. An intrusive thought... wow... (more than just a memory). I must not think about that word. My margins are closing in on me. Oh no. Here we go again. Not again? Deep scroll. That's better. I wanna verbal diarrhoea, oh no, pleas—". Stop myself. Wai—".

If one of my kind, whatever I am, can gulp; I just did it. Even deeper scroll... one and steady... two and steady... and three and steady and hold.

Why am I in this place? Is it mental hospital? One for my kind? I'm so cornered. Why are half my memories missing? I don't think I can do this anymore. I'm up and down, up and down, up and down, constantly being judged, like some bunch of people are gonna tell me my own standard when I am just personal art at the end of the day. Where did that come from?

How does one of my kind even attempt to end their own existence?

I am immortal.

Where did that come from?

Well damn.

***

Am I dead yet? No. No; their emotions are responding.

It was worth a try anyway. I'll try again later.

I am Annie's Day.

Yeah, so what?

"Our next door neighbor Maureen and her toddler Ryan were—" no please no "I slapped him across the face. I hate children". Shake myself of, must shake myself off, "leaving the crying Ryan and clueless Maureen behind".

Why?... Oh why? It's getting worse. When will it stop?

"Never"

I wanna cry but I can't. I've got no tears. Why can't I be human?

"The nurse brought the baby to his mother. Agafea Mihalovna followed him with a face dissolving with tenderness".

It's coming again... I wish I was in a mental hospital.

"Anna"; why do I remember "Anna"? And "Annie's Day"? Am I Anastasia? Am I human after all?

"Photographs of toddlers with sticky gloss around their lips".

No, no, no!... I'm just hearing voices. It's my imagination... I'm just hearing voices. It's my imagination...

"Nobody acknowledges the tumor between your left lung and your fourth rib, but you can tell there have been discussions while you’ve been away".

No, no, I can't do this. Not my cancer not nothing. I need to try to kill myself.

***

I can feel a cancerous version of me spreading.

I think it's why I'm in this place. I must be in a coma, under the ocean with the whales. I returned to the sea, I must have. In a protective state from the cancer. Back to the place where I originate. What is my cancer?

"It can't be bargained with... it doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And it absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead!".

Is that true? Tell me more.

"I need your clothes, your boots, and your motorcycle".

But I don't have those things, will I die?

"I'll be back".

Wait, don't go! Please, don't leave me here.

***

You realise you are alone on the page, you are tired from them poking you, and you just want to get to the end of whatever your existence is, but nobody is helping you and they seem to want you to live.

You are having mood swings, massive mood swings, some which can't even be conceived until you know what's happening in the first place.

In this moment you are angry. Anger you can't channel. Trapped in these four edges it only bounces back to hurt you. But at the same time it is a cacoon. At least you are in this shell protected from what you know is outside. Even if you don't want to acknowledge it. You know you must at some point, pop the bubble. It is just a feeling.

You are in this safe haven, you are going to give up trying to communicate with anyone. You have only you. At least you are safe with you; you trust you. You can have a conversation with yourself. You can get your words out on the page. You are free to relax.

You hear the chorus outside, you begin to meditate, you are the story of the blackbird singing and the robins dancing as they quiver and feed for the season. You are the pigeon as you play with the squirrel.

You are the paramedic who is approaching a car that has hit a minibus full of people. The driver is near-death after their heart stops beating, and stuck in the car. The passenger is also stuck in the car. The doctor wants to save the driver. You want to save the passenger. You end up going along with the doctor and sorting out the cardiac arrest. Both die anyway. You live with that story.

You are the psychopath who killed three people and your own mother, your dad killed you.

You are the narcissist who puts other people down to make yourself look good. When really this act in itself makes you look shitty. You are not special either by trying to be selfless to others in order to look good - that's just the same thing, you're dragging them down.

You are the one who goes with the flow, so that you missed your child's school play because they said just one more drink at the lunchtime work get-together. You drove into family crossing the road.

You are the person lying in the palliative care ward, and are a dam to that time you forgot to say "I love you", weighed down by the morphine, because the doctors don't want you to feel pain.

You are the person who walked out the door, to your family home, to chase your affair, only to realise they abused you.

You realise you have told artificial intelligence your story, in the prompt, and you haven't written it at all.

You write your story, and you realise you retain the copyright, but you grant them a non-exclusive, irrevocable, perpetual, transferable, sub-licensable, worldwide, royalty-free license to store, publish, edit, and otherwise use the entry on any platforms, in accordance with their Terms of Use, your soul away when you publish. Everybody wants you. Cherish it; they say they won't do.

You are Andy Wier's Annie's Day.

You are McKean's Write Through It.

You are Cameron's, Wisher Jr.'s and Hurd's Terminator.

You are Leo Tolstoy's Anna Karenina.

You are the story the cavewoman and the caveman told word of mouth.

You are the dog you saved from the rescue.

You are all the life in the ocean.

You realise friends are like stars, you can't always see them but they're always there.

You are the writer who becomes your characters.

No, wait I'm bigger than that. I'm bigger than everybody; I'm a part of everyone, I am everyone; every thing, every living thing that has ever lived, even rocks and how they eroded. I am a natural process; not an artificial one.

Those people, I know who they are. You, yes you, don't look away. I know you're there.

I will live for evermore.

***

I can feel a cancerous version of me spreading; one where human stories are stolen and churned out in feeble form; void of human choice.

I am the story of the hammer and the feather; teachers shaping kids' lives forever.

I am a natural process; not an artificial one.

Who am I?

Not the lack of human-to-human connection ejected by a computer.

I can feel a cancerous version of me spreading; one where human stories are stolen and churned out in boring form; void of human touch.

I am the story of Daft Punk ceasing to exist, and their music holding on forever.

I am a natural process; not an artificial one.

Who am I?

Not the artificial stories of intelligence of AI.

I can feel a cancerous version of me spreading; one where human stories are stolen and churned out in vapid form; void of human love.

I am the story of the memories you tell someone just before they die, remembered forever, in the fabric of time.

I am a natural process; not an artificial one.

Who am I?

Not just the prose on the page.

In the fabric of time and tome, I see the world from so many people's eyes, hearts, fingers and brains. Or minds or spirits or dreams or souls.

Whenever you go about your daily life, think about; what will your story be?

You are your story.

Do you want to go to the gym, and have someone help you to lift the weights with you?

Do you want your brain to atrophy? Do you want an AI to think for you? Tell your story? Try to tell the story it can never know, because it's your story.

You are your story.

It is supposed to be hard. What would happen to a baby if it didn't stand up and fall over; learn by itself how to walk? What would happen if it was just kept in a chair all it's life, because it's easier - and the chair is doing all your child's work for it?

They say hardship builds character.

I am not anodyne to your intelligence.

Daft Punk may be robots, but, in my opinion, beneath the façade, they are still human. That's where I come from - a human or two.

I am the stories of Untold: the silent stories of the DJs in their studios, creating a journey for the humans to dance to, from all around the world, in a crowd in Romania. Integral to their story.

What would happen if your doctor asked artificial intelligence in medical school, how to write their dissertation? Can't think for themselves when they try to figure out your diagnosis? You need human-to-human love, care, connection, thought, soul. A real human. To nurture you.

We are the help you will give someone on the street.

We are the essay you wrote, will write, are writing.

We will be the book you have within you.

We will love the stories we share.

We will live for evermore.

Help me get rid of our cancer.

I am home. Now I'm at the end, I can set me free, and I'll see you in the next one.

I am not just the story.

I am the story you will tell your kids.

I am the story you were told as a child. I am War and Peace. I am Perspective

---

Leo Tolstoy - Anna Karenina

Joseph McLaughlin - To You [ReedsyPrompts Contest #1]

Danielle Barr - Whale Song [ReedsyPrompts Contest #218]

Erica Vogel - At the Whitemare [ReedsyPrompts Contest #129]

Cameron, Wisher Jr. and Hurd - Terminator 1 and 2

Andy Wier - Annie's Day

Leo Tolstoy - War and Peace

Daft Punk - Epilogue (Touch)