The Many Forms of I

The Man

Hi! This is kind of my first solo work, so hope u enjoy it!

"I'm not a kleptomaniac.

"I really need you to understand that.

"It's just that... I like red. Blood red, with all its contours and fluctuations. Red is the most beautiful, the most passionate colour, isn't it?"

He looks at me expectantly. I nod.

"I do have a conscience, you know.

"But when I saw that beautiful box, with its gaping red maw, its rosewood finish, its intricate designs..."he shudders. "I just couldn't resist, you know? My hand just reached out and took it. There, it's on the table beside me. Look at it. Isn't it the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?"

I look at the table. There is no box, no box with a gaping red maw or a rosewood finish, no box with an intricate design.

But he is waiting for an answer, so I nod my head again.

"I know I shouldn't have taken it," he continues. "Don't you think I know it myself? I can see it in your eyes. You're thinking, 'This man has no morals!' But I assure you, I didn't mean any harm. It was probably just a stupid box to the old lady. You know what I found in it? You know what abominations I found in the beautiful box?"

He is evidently agitated, so I hurriedly pat him on the back. "Please continue," I say. So he settles back down, arms tight on the handles of the chair. Somehow, his fingers remind me of talons.

"I found nail clippings inside that beautiful box," he says in a hushed, angry voice. "Nail clippings."

"All the same, you shouldn't have taken it," I say reasonably.

He glares at me. "I don't need you to tell me that. I struggle with the torture of a heavy conscience every day of my life now. There's a pain in my chest. Oh, God. I can't bear it any longer. Take it! Take the box, and be done with it!"

The man motions towards the empty desk, then, evidently exhausted from his mental struggle, falls back down on to the white sheets. They are blindingly white to me. He coughs, and a spatter of blood stains them.

"I will not live long, you know. When I'm gone, you must take the box to the furnace, and burn it. Burn it, so I can live in peace."

Because it's his last wish, I nod, for the third time in this macabre conversation.

He sighs. An expression of peace whispers across his face, like a breath of wind. I lean over and close his eyes.

Now, as I write this, I wonder. What was the real struggle behind his story? Was it really a struggle with his conscience... Or a struggle with his madness?

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