Eye of a Hurricane

The air con’s humming sound echoed in the room, the seats creaked, and sniffling
sounds filled my ears. As I sat in my own creaky seat, I couldn’t help but wonder how long
this service was, how uselessly long it was, how many hours are needed to “pay honors” to
an already dead woman. I sat there, about to deliver a eulogy for the woman who had loved
me for her whole life, yet not a tear in sight. I should’ve been shaking and trembling and
acting like a weak porcelain doll, but instead, there I was. Seated on that creaky wooden
chair, seated on that bright red cushion, surrounded by silence, a silence which was casually
interrupted by inappropriate coughing or sneezing by part of the other hurt souls in this
stuffy room. My neck began itching, it was my shirt. My black laced shirt. I scratched it for
who knows how long, I could foresee the rash forming on my neck, a blood thirsty rash, like
a million spider bites. No, not spider bites, mosquito bites. Not even bites, maybe the color
of red lipstick smudged upon a pale white skin. It could be a blood red, resembling to a knife
cut, or maybe a heat burn. As I fantasized upon the various possible shades of that rash,
someone nudged my right shoulder, tilting their head slightly forwards towards the coffin.
Scoffing, I adjusted my black laced shirt and unwillingly stood up.
The sound of my heels resounded in the room; it was so quiet. There was some sort
of boredom in my voice, I couldn’t bring myself to care about my mother. I couldn’t bring
myself to grieve for her. My words went on, a monologue which could’ve been written by
anyone, it didn’t showcase the ‘mother daughter’ bond that many expected. As I dictated
the last word on my piece of paper, I hurried off that stand, out of the spotlight and sat back
down. The chair creaked in response to my weight, and the room was silent again. I was
nudged once again, I turned with an annoyed expression. “I’m sorry for your loss” (I’m not)
they whispered in my ear and offered me a sympathetic smile. I nodded my head and
turned my focus back to the coffin. Time ticked; minutes passed. (might’ve been hours). The
officiant’s words blurred in the background, at the time, the most important thought on my
mind was whether I was craving spaghetti or chicken. The room emptied out, and I stood up
from that damned creaky seat one last time. Leaving that restlessly dead woman alone.
***
Laughter resounded in the air. Childish laughter. It was me and him. Me, sat down on
a bench staring at him while he ran through the grass laughing. Such innocence. He
reminded me of a lamb, innocent and sacrificial. I was bored. He was having fun. How I
wished he would just shut up. That laughter was so irritating. Worse than a rash. I couldn’t
help but think about how much noise he was making. The way that he was disrupting the
peace. How I wished I could just shut him up. Shut him up, never hear that vexatious laugh
ever again. Sacrifice him, like a lamb, for nature’s silence. He ran, ran and ran around, in
endless circles, rolling around in that grass. He ran and I stood up. He ran and I walked. He
ran and I got closer. He ran, until some point he didn’t run anymore. Quiet, finally. Laughter
was gone, finally. I sat back down. Screams drowned, and I sat back down. Legs crossed,
eyes closed, and silence. I couldn’t help but smile, I had shut him up, I had restored the
quiet and now everything was fine. He wasn’t my problem anymore. I imaged myself
hanging from the same cliff he ‘fell’ from. I imagine myself, hanging peacefully. As that
reassuring thought occupied my mind, screams filled the scene once more. A weeping
woman hurried to me, her face seemed a waterfall, the tears made her skin shine and glow
against the soft sunrays. She was yelling, screaming and crying. I couldn’t understand what
she was saying, I was just annoyed again. I heard two words: “you monster” and I laughed. I
had never laughed this way before. How could I be considered a monster. Monster for
restoring nature’s silence and peace? Monster for prohibiting a disruption in the world’s
indifference? She yelled and screamed some more. I didn’t feel bad, I was supposed to feel
bad. I didn’t, but was I?
****
Hurricanes had always appealed to me. In the eye of a hurricane there is quiet. There
is always quiet. It is a quiet center of indifference. No matter the storm brewing at its side,
the center remains quiet. No matter the gushing winds, the destruction of nearby nature,
the center remains quiet. I believe to resemble to such thought. I believe that the world is
the hurricane, and I am its center. The only truly indifferent. Many might state that it isn’t
quiet. Many won’t dare to walk through the noise of the hurricane to reach the center.
These thoughts take over my mind, like a hurricane, the increasing sound of the wind tunes
out the surrounding voices. I am sat in a creaky seat once more. That’s all I hear, creaking.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Those words broke through the sound of the wind,
thrashing me back to reality. I stare into those pitch-black eyes, which stared back at me. I
didn’t answer, how could I begin to explain to her that it wasn’t anything personal. How
could I tell her that I didn’t care for the pain inflicted upon that child. I didn’t tell her that, I
didn’t describe the smile that formulated upon my face the moment that the lamb was
sacrificed. Was it un-human of me to react in such way? Maybe, am not I human? Do I grasp
upon the little humanity I have left, or let myself become the monster to my story? What
have I become?

Reflection
Ghost story conventions
Tension (repetition: “shut him up”, constant rhetorical questions, controversy)
Setting (funeral home, hurricane)
About fears (emotional detachment: losing basic human emotions to become an
emotionless living person, CANNOT GRIEVE, DOESN’T FEEL PITY, DOESN’T UDERSTAND
CONSEQUENCES TO ACTIONS)
Appeal to the senses (the rash, hearing, emotions)
Not gruesome (doesn’t describe the child actually being killed, but it is implied)