Journal of the Survivors

Chapter Twelve--Trace

Chapter Twelve—Trace

I close my sketch book and stick it back under the mattress of my bed. Not the most original stashing place, but it’s where I’ve always hidden my art. My parents, mostly my father, never really supported my interest in art. They preferred to act as if it wasn’t a part of me. They never went looking for my work because that would mean admitting that their son was into unprincipled hobbies, one that doesn’t create more revenue or further one socially. That’s what my father was fond of; progress.

I glance at the clock and see that it’s morning already. Once again, a sleepless night.

I sigh and stand, stretching my back. I grab a towel and quietly make my way down the hall and descend the stairs. I go down to the fitness room. I never understood why gyms and such had mirrors all along the walls. I really don’t want to see myself drenched in sweat and red in the face while I try to keep fit. It’s very unappealing. Yet, of course, my father had the walls covered in mirrors to be just like everyone else, to follow society’s expectations. I drape my towel across one of the bars on my favourite treadmill.

I start by stretching each muscle. I love the feeling. It makes me feel energized and ready for anything. I move on to jumping jacks, then sit-ups, and finally push-ups, counting to one hundred for each. Feeling loose and ready, I decide to go for a little run.

I always use the same treadmill. My father bought six, but I hate all the other ones. Technically, they’re all the same, but in my eyes, this one is the best. I always referred to her as Chloe, just to annoy my father. Again, he thought that it was queer, that his son wasn’t the perfect little soldier he wanted. No, his son was just a disappointment. I remember when I was little I had an imaginary friend. Being in my family it was extremely lonely for an only child. My parents were always away and the nannies they hired wouldn’t play with me, so I created a friend for myself. I called him Samuel. I once made the mistaking of telling my father about my friend, and he almost blew a gasket. He told me that I was an idiot and that Samuel wasn’t real. He told me to grow up and be a man and to get me head out of the clouds. I was four.

From then on I did my best to do whatever I could to irritate him. He sent me to England for ten years. When I came back, my father took one look at me, then prepared a journey back to England for military school which, to be honest, was not a surprise. While there the first time, I had gone through hardcore cadets and whatnot. I was always the kid who was made to do, like, a bajillion push-ups or run the obstacle course—you know, the one where you have to crawl under barbed wire and scale a wall?—so military school was a breeze for me. By this time, World War Three had started. I don’t know what it is with England, but they always seem to be bombed during wars. Rotten luck. That was why I was brought back to America. I was put into the war only a few months later. I have never seen so much blood and gore in my entire life, well until now that is. But when I was shot, it both saved and destroyed my life.

As I run, I decide to make a song. It’s been a while since I’ve written anything. Pleased with what I’ve come up with, I stop the treadmill and head for the bench press. Usually, you’re supposed to have a spotter, but I don’t need one. I take off my white t-shirt and drop it on the floor beside me. I lay back and grasp the bar in my hands lifting it off its rest, the weights still on from the last time I used it. I start to pump, feeling the burn. Once I’ve stabilized my breathing pattern, I sing to myself.

“Standing back watching life pass me by

Dreaming with open eyes

An image of you burned into my mind

Makes me chase the things I’ll never find

“You use to hold the light in your hands

But now that time has come to an end