Continuity

If the way my story ends isn’t of satisfying means, you obviously don’t know anything about inner conflict. This story may not be as interesting as a certain book Mark Twain wrote in a period of 7 years. But I don’t have any expendable time, well, aside from my Tuesday and Thursday free writes. This story starts exactly as any other, so I’ll adopt the saying ‘Once upon a time.’

Once upon a time there was a child extremely mature for his age. Except that’s me, now. I’ve always been rightfully mature. I was never too interested in having immature friends. People always respect me for this. Honest, though, I did host one fault. My memory has never been something to brag about. I know this sure can’t help me out, by this I mean I have no painful childhood memories. Although I’m sure that’s what you were expecting. Sometimes thinking back on my life I realize that there are thousands of days in a row of which I have completely forgotten. And of course there’s the first five years of my life, of which I can’t remember even one thing from. It seems unnatural.

But the thing is; all that really matters is here and now. So who needs a great memory anyways? Well, unlike every other kid of my age, I find entertainment in writing. I always did think playing with friends was fairly adolescent. Thinking back on a year ago, I would put all of my maturity into the book I planned on publishing. And up until last month I spent somewhere around 13 hours a day writing it. Sometimes I’d even sacrifice three nights of sleep in a row for that book. Well, in the end I sold just about a million copies. I could tell I was meant to be a writer, on account of the extent to which I knew people enjoyed my work. The same hour I published that book I started writing another.

I never was the modest type. In fact I’m probably one of the cockiest people you’ll ever meet. People say confidence is important in every situation. That’s probably why I’ve always been the favorite at the orphanage. My brother says I need to spend more time in the real world, that is, outside of my book. But I know he is just jealous that he isn’t a world famous author. I try to never leave him out, inviting him to my book readings and such. I’ve always felt like I was responsible for him. He is not as independent as me. And I worry that, like his immature friends, he might lose appreciation for my book. The man in charge makes me leave my room about 800 times a day and go outside. He says it’s to keep me “sane.” I can tell he favors me over my brother. It’s sad really.

I would tell you how long I’ve been here, but I don’t know really. Not that I care all too much. I mean I know I’ve at least been here to the extent of what I remember. But how helpful is that? My brother doesn’t like to talk about what he remembers much. All I know is it’s been him and I for at least 12 years, and I’m fine with that.

I plan on getting out of here when I can. Being out there on my own and earning millions through my writing. Well, maybe my brother can come too. I wouldn’t mind. Anyway, We’d go out and buy the biggest house on this Earth with my money. He could get a job, too, to feel satisfied with himself. Maybe I’d higher my education to become a better writer. I could go out and find some people with the same interests as me, and then I wouldn’t be so bored with all of my current acquaintances. We’d find the best friends in the world, and there would be no more loneliness. I know it’ll happen one day. Honestly, I have my heart set on it.

Last time I tried getting out of this place I missed it so much I decided to come home. I was out for about 35 days before they brought me home. I thought it was a fairly good run. They were just happy to have me back, naturally. I decided it was best to leave at night while everyone was sleeping. I packed everything of value I owned and snuck out of my room. When passing the man in charge’s room I had to be especially quiet, and apparently I did a good job of it. Sneaking out from then on was pretty easy. Upon leaving I rented a hotel room, though it was awfully cold in the night. And for the whole month all I did was sleep and eat, but it was a lot better than living there. Maybe my only problem was that I didn’t bring my brother the first time.

I think tomorrow I’ll tell him and we can devise a genius plan. I know things will be okay this time.

 

 

About the Author

My name is Rachel Lee and I am attending my first semester at CU Boulder as a freshman. Writing has always been a hobby of mine, regardless of if it is academic or recreational. In this piece, titled “Continuity,” I adopted a young, unreliable narrator. The name of this character, or his true age, is irrelevant. I hope to pursue my career of writing while studying Philosophy at CU Boulder.

I’m a Cheyenne Mountain High School 2010 graduate, but I have moved in between Europe and America my entire life. I love to travel because I enjoy incorporating cultural scenes and characters into my writing.

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