Reconstruction of a Memory- Matthew Milligan
Alone in my bedroom, I find myself swallowed by darkness. I want the lack of light to numb me, to shut out the noise of the raging world outside. The bed I lay in should feel soft, but the usually delicate sheets and warm blue comforter make me feel confined. Why is it that I cannot find comfort in the simple things that used to please me before? Perhaps it is the pit of loss currently hollowing out my stomach, growing deeper with each breath I take.
Death has ripped away someone I love. It had been a lingering shadow hovering over us for many months prior, slowly collecting its tax on life. How many more hospital trips would it have to take for it to finally be over? Sometimes waiting ends up being more tortuous than what everyone dreads. At least they can finally rest, and maybe we can too.
Wrestling against muddled thoughts of grief attempting to pin me to the bed, I rose to my feet. It felt like I was underwater, my bones full of cement. Too stubborn to turn on the lamp, I search around in the pitch black topography created by blackout curtains nested in the windows for the items I desire.
Years of use have made the room a place I can navigate flawlessly with eyes closed. I find my nightstand with ease and grasp my hands around a candle, the smooth glass the wax resides in cold to the touch. I need something other than the dull glow of artificial light.
The second provision I must hunt for takes a little bit more effort, however, after a few minutes, I find the cheap lighter I bought at the corner store in my drawer amongst underwear and scattered change. It isn’t meant to light candles, but I must make do with what I have. Fumbling absentmindedly with the switch I send sparks into the empty air as I make my way towards the window.
Moving the veil aside I lay the candle upon the window ledge and stare at it, unlit, full of potential. My fingers coax a flame from the lighter and I bring it to the wick. A steady fire presents itself before me and I watch it intently. A faint glow illuminates the room, scaring the darkness away into corners. I made my way back to bed and lay down, watching the flickering illumination dance across the ceiling with the shadows still present in the room with me.
Most of the stylistic influences in my short story come from Margaret Atwood. Though boredom plays a role in Offred being overly descriptive in her narration, I feel as though another part of it is her brain trying to distract itself from her current terrible situation. My main character is similarly suffering in the moment (Offred struggles with grief a lot) and I wanted them to cope in the same way. I also appreciated Offred's tendencies to interrupt her narration with questions to herself/the reader. I think doing so adds more to the description by showing how the character is reacting to the memory as the are remembering it, which is why I had my character do the same thing.
