Ten Years A Prisoner

    “I only have one son.” Mother says flatly.

    “What happened to the other?”

    “I have one.” She replies with a biting edge, a flare, to drop the topic.

   Overhearing Mother’s conversations like this used to sting like a punitive slap to open flesh, a raging fire churning behind his cheeks. This is same fire that is boiling his tears, waiting for them to ripen and sear down his cheeks once again. That’s what life feels like sometimes. Counterproductive. He would rise up just to fall right back where he was, over and over again, just like those tears.

    But, somewhere along the line, he ran out of tears to cry.

    “You did have another, I swear.” Mother’s friend smirks bemusedly over her steaming cup of tea, leaning forward, clearly fixated on this one thought. “What happened to him?”

    Mother growls, her discomfort practically tangible through the bedroom wall that separates you from the conversation, from the rest of the world. In that almost-tangible beast, reaching to engulf you, reflects her distaste and discomfort.

    He listens, wincing, remembering what it used to be like before. With a charming smile that was able to conquer the world, he used to be adored by his peers and elders alike. Considered a “Renaissance man” of modern society, he held high expectations of himself and others, always striving to be his best, but more importantly, be the best. However, when that new girl moved to his small town, he, suddenly, was no longer the center of attention. Enraged, he began to push harder. He worked aggressively and pulled later nights with his work. He tried to balance his academics, social life, sports, and his numerous interests. Driving himself insane, he began to crack. After receiving his first C ever in physics, the wheels began to fall off. He began skipping his hockey practices, failing all of his classes, turning away from his friends and family and finding misery in even playing his cello, the one thing that used to give him comfort in all the mayhem. So used to being showered in praise and laud, he couldn’t bear the shame and break in his dignity. He sat on his bed, like he does now, and he wept, not understanding, parsing, what he did wrong. Why was he no longer the one in the spotlight? What did he do to deserve this?

    There was only one option left for him. He locked himself in his room, never to be seen again by his family, friends, and neighbors. The only contact he receives from the outside world is from the food silently placed outside of his room each night. This food from his mother is the only acknowledgement of his existence.

    “I have no other son.” Mother repeats for the last time with a heaving sigh of exasperation.

    Though he pretends not to care, shuffling his feet and biting his nails, he listens, leaning forward to the certain spot on the wall that he knows is the thinnest. He closes his eyes and slowly, shakily, exhales, waiting for the moment of realization. He knows how Mother’s conversation is going to unfold, just as it has many times over the past ten years. Even though he knows how much hearing the words hurts, he can’t help himself. He has come to embrace the pain; feeling pain, he reckons, is better than feeling nothing at all.

    Mother’s friend winces, finally comprehending the nature of the situation. “Ahh... A hikikomori...” She says under her breath, eyes widening with the revelation.

    Mother tightens her lips and swallows visibly, pretending not to hear her friends mutter.

    He leans back, falling back into his chair with his hands covering his face. Sometimes, like he is now, he thinks of what could have been. In a way, it keeps him sane. He lives his golden days in his mind. What else is there to do other than be stuck in his mind anyways?

    Night begins to fall, and Mother wishes her friend farewell. Closing the front door, Mother audibly sighs, and he hears her try to silently choke back a few tears. After a bit of shuffling around, cabinets closing and plates clinking, he hears the familiar sound of footsteps bringing food. He knows to wait a minute, as the footsteps fade away, to open the door. As he waits, he looks through the cracks of the blinds that let slivers of moonlight through from the other side of the room.

    As if moving through water, he feels his heavy feet carry him to the window. Fingers shaking and weak, he pushes the blinds apart to greet a full moon. Breathing onto the glass of his cold window, he sees his sallow reflection begin to cloud and disappear from the condensation. Moving as if he is in a trance, he opens the window, breathing in the cool, fresh air. Unaware of his actions, he braces his hands on the window sill and looks back to his bedroom door, knowing the food, as it has for the past decade, is lying on the other side.

  As Mother goes to collect the dirty dishes the next day, she sleepily rubs her eyes. Blinking once, twice, she notices something different. The food is still there.