My Safekeep
Flash Fiction
It was supposed to be just another day as I was reading the fictional novel about the suffering of very real people during the Holocaust and how its legacy continues even after numerous decades, it was the novel about the struggles of finding love in a strictly heteronormative society, it was a novel about how one’s parents dies but they continue to haunt their offspring forever, it was a novel about human’s obession with finding a place of belonging, it was a novel about poverty, grief, love, it was a novel about so many things more.1
As I read, traveling through the world and seeing everything the author wished for me to explore, it was almost surreal how the author was able to portray the human emotions that generally tend to stay suppressed. Suddenly, someone entered my room. I knew him well enough; I knew his motives, too, but telling him to leave would have had greater consequences. His skin, his face, his habits, his laugh, all seemed least hostile that time, but now that I look back, it all was dark, almost like soot from a fire that burned years ago, and all that’s left now is soot.
He sat there with a smile, holding the face of a most welcoming saint, almost like the one in those children’s fables who asks a question and leaves a gift of diamonds and jewels after getting the right answer. It was similar here; he was here to ask the most rudimentary questions related to my life, and then he was supposed to leave. He liked to present that the reason he was there was for my own good, being surrounded by objects that don’t speak and only tell tales can cause harm to one’s mind. Soon, the questions started. I was getting impatient already, as once he got the right answer, I would receive the gift of his absence, and I was already in dire need of it. The questions started as follows-
“So how’s the day going?“
There was a pause on my side for a few seconds. It was sudden, and I wasn’t prepared enough, although this question is one of the continuously repeated questions, but I am never actually ready for it, as the answer lays the foundation for further conversation, and the same answer can’t be repeated in a row of days and weeks.
“Just the same, the same college work, the same assignments.” The answer must not be interesting, cause if it is, then my gift will not be there.
“Really? Nothing interesting? You’re young, you've got to have an interesting life. You need to move out. There is a whole life out there that is waiting for you.“
The reply was the same, just presented in different ways. The reply always meant one thing: whatever I am doing is not enough according to this person’s standards. It almost felt like a replay of the events that have been happening for half of my life.
“Yeah, it would have been wonderful only if this perfect life were so easily accessible to everyone.“ As soon as I said it, I regretted it. The source of those words must have been from the irritation caused by the interruption in my reading, or maybe it stemmed from living the same day again and again; whatever it was, it was risky. His eyes held the expression that the word might have touched the wrong spot.
“hmmm…“ There was a long and loud silence, which almost presented the calm before the chaos.
“Have you ever felt that all the books you read actually don’t hold anything?“ The question was sharp and meant to harm. Once you kick a snake, it doesn’t crawl away; rather, it comes back to bite.
“Hold anything?“ I repeated it as the words felt heavy in my mouth.
“Hold anything, as they have no inte-te-te-lect”
The last word was broken and turned to shards, so they’ll sting harder. It was no longer a replay, but my answer was already saved, and I was supposed to say “yes” “yes” “yes“ till he gives me peace, but I just couldn’t, so I said “How so?“
“I mean to say, the subjects like biology, chemistry, physics. Those hold something. This is an activity you do for fun, or what you call it? Yes, leisure, “ the snicker, the smirk, the smile, he was trying his best to hold it in. It was amusing for him as he could control, watch, and predict his subject and derive a reaction from it.
“You haven’t read what I read. If you read it, you might have understood something.“ As my reply wasn’t a “yes”, it was disrespectful.
“I don’t need to read, I know what it is about; my friends read it. “ There was a higher pitch added to his voice. The game wasn’t going to end anytime soon, but I mustn’t continue and accept my defeat.
“And I don’t need to agree with you. I guess we can agree to disagree.” I got up from my chair and opened the door that he had closed behind him when he entered, and I left.
It was a spur-of-the-moment decision until it wasn’t; it was an action worse, there would be consequences to this very action, consequences unpredictable, uncontrolable. As I took my step forward, I realised that I shouldn’t have said anything, I should have kept quiet or maybe just said “yes” “yes” “yes“. Even when he attacked and insulted everything I held dear to my heart.
I went to the other room, but my brain kept on tormenting me; I kept on getting tormented, it didn’t stop, it continued. The wounds on my body opened up and ached again. The time turned slower and slower. The scars that were supposed to lighten with time darkened almost as if they burned. Burned.
Then, suddenly, with the thought of burning, I got reminded of my mother, how her books were torn apart and burned, how she gave up on them afterwards, how the constant cycle of abuse surrounding books made her dislike them. I couldn’t let myself be the one, but I couldn’t let my body move either. It felt like my house was burning with them as fire spread and enveloped it all. The fire was a big monster with a face and a crown on its head and long arms and sharp fingers. The fire gnawed and chewed at them with pleasure; it enjoyed my pain, my suffering as my book burned.
I couldn’t hold it in anymore, so I walked, I walked back inside the room and saw him lying on my bed, and I said “Sorry, papa“ even when I wasn’t sorry, but I must save myself and my things from burning.
He walked past me at a swift pace and went to my mother and said that he’ll do terrible things to me, he’ll break my bones, crush them, punch my face, make me bleed, she needs to control me, and said so many things worse.
I didn’t do anything, I just sat down on my chair and hugged my novel, it was my safekeeping and I was its. I had nothing except the thing that I wrapped around my chest.
The novel was “The Safekeep“ by Yael van der Wouden. I recommend reading it.
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