Monday, February 22, 2010
Sara's Cheever Arms, Pt. 3—10 Years Later
11:20 AM |
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by Sara
There was nothing left. Everything that needed to be done had been done. It had been a short life, but a full life. The excitement had been used up long ago. Tatum looked down into his rippled, distorted reflection. He took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of running water and forest decay. The wind brushed his skin, leaving small bumps in its wake. He tried to remember something good. A Christmas Eve, perhaps when he was four. The excitement of knowing Santa was coming that night, and not being able to fall asleep. The anticipation of the presents that would magically appear.
There are not a lot of seventeen-year-olds working in NASA. Tatum liked the work, sure. It was challenging, and there was always someone smarter than him. No one could call him a show-off. He worked with the technology that goes inside space shuttles; the smallest, most finicky machinery. It was a compliment, really, to have that job. It meant that he really was what many doctors and psychologists had dubbed him: a certified genius. But it was lonely. Older men, sometimes women, milling about, always rushing, always talking to themselves, murmuring equations or formulas under their breaths.
The spark of so long ago could not be fanned into a flame. Tatum's face was hard, closed off to those sorts of emotions. His heart had simply given up.
At first, he thought he liked being lonely. He was content to live vicariously through other people. He used to be able to smile while he watched co-workers or strangers at the coffee shop talk and smile and be social and normal. Normal. That was about the only thing Tatum could not have. But he was a teenager. And teenagers crave company. This was Tatum's problem.
There are not a lot of seventeen-year-olds working in NASA. Tatum liked the work, sure. It was challenging, and there was always someone smarter than him. No one could call him a show-off. He worked with the technology that goes inside space shuttles; the smallest, most finicky machinery. It was a compliment, really, to have that job. It meant that he really was what many doctors and psychologists had dubbed him: a certified genius. But it was lonely. Older men, sometimes women, milling about, always rushing, always talking to themselves, murmuring equations or formulas under their breaths.
For a while, the first few months perhaps, Tatum lived on blissful memories of his past. Simple, good times, like a birthday out with his dad. But like a favorite t-shirt, they became weary, thin, dull from abuse. They had begun to fade, blur together, mixing themselves with the sad times, the bad stories. And so Tatum had begun to forget them, leave them to rot in the gutter of a dark alleyway. And now, in their place, stood a great and heavy void of emptiness.
This vast chasm started off like a heavy backpack; manageable at first, but by the time you get home from school, you want nothing more than to remove the weight from your shoulders. Tatum was well past this point. He had tried to remove it, using every tool available to a seventeen-year-old employed by NASA. And nothing had worked.
So he found himself here, at the lip of a bridge. It was beautiful, picturesque. The breeze was warm and tasted like fresh rain. The leaves rustling gave Tatum a perfect sound track. The water gurgled happily below him, complying with the bends and twists the riverbed presented it with. The water was clear and inviting. How ironic, Tatum thought.
He wished he could have hope. He'd heard stories of people who grew up as child soldiers or were raped when they were twelve, and they went on to do great things. People who had been through the most horrific, inhumane circumstances and had managed to go on and make wonderful changes. Tatum wished he had their courage.
Even though the day was warm, the metal pole Tatum was holding was cold. The toes of his shoes poked over the edge of the concrete bridge. He wasn't afraid of heights, but still he found his head feeling light and airy. He took a deep breath. He was not impulsive. This was not a last minute decision. This was something his whole life had built up to, something his body had been walking towards for the past seventeen years. This was exactly where he
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3 comments:
I really like the comparissons! There's a couple parts where you use the word "perhaps" where it isn't really needed; "For a while, the first few months perhaps, Tatum lived on blissful memories of his past."
It kind of breaks the third person perspective.
I agree with Emma. I find if you leave out words like perhaps and maybe it leaves the writing sounding stronger. I really like this, its sad but I feel for him.
JUST realized the end of the story didn't post for some reason. So here it is...
"This is exactly where he wanted to be. He let go."
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