The Synonym of Reality

Ever wondered what it is like to be invisible? If not, you might be wishing to be invisible for a while, trust me you won’t like it. BTW my name is Death. Yeah, I am kind of a person too. Just that I am invisible to people who “have time”. Eventually, we are going to see each other in some years but right now, just listen. I have a story to tell, of a young man in London. It was the late eighteen hundreds when I saw him for the first time.

He was eleven years old then, out in Baker’s street playing with a couple of children. He was a natural runner. I remember my jaw dropping when I saw him run. From the pavement, he started, and off he went, like a bullet shot from a gun. He ran faster than the horses that pulled the carriages and clenched his jaw looking back at them when they couldn’t keep up. One of the horses was about to beat him by running over him, but he was saved. You can say he cheated me that day. Although we didn’t have an encounter for a very long time, I visited his locality often. 

His name was Samuel. He had a sister, Catherine, and a father who worked as a supervisor at the Black Slaves Association aka B.S.A. Samuel always thought of his father’s job to be extremely tedious and inhuman. What would be worse than watch thin and glistening bodies of black people toil in the dark mines and you get paid for doing it? Lifelessly and without humanity. It kinda sucks the life out of you, while being alive. 

Samuel never along went with his father and kept himself outdoors every time his father left for the B.S.A. office. And when he was at home, Samuel would crouch in the basement with a book and spend his time there. He was sad all the time, so Catherine would come around and he would teach her to read and write. That is the only thing besides literature, that gave him happiness. If you ask me about his running, he ran because of anger and frustration. He was never happy while running. Don’t judge him, we all have something to distract us from pain. For our lanky Samuel, it was more pain.

One Christmas Eve, I happened to be in his locality again. This time, it was Catherine. No, she didn’t die that day, but we had almost met. I think she saw me, but I am quick at hiding. So, it was Christmas Eve and Cathrine was now eleven, but unlike her brother, she was slightly stout and always smiling. It was seven and the streets of London were covered in snow. I walked through Baker’s street without leaving a trail in the snow. Catherine knocked on the door, and Samuel opened it partially. He stayed hidden behind the door when their father stormed out. He walked right to the front yard slapped her in the face and went back inside. Samuel came out to look at her for one precise moment and shut the door on her face. I could see the guilt in his eyes, shame, and nostalgia. Catherine stayed out in the snow, shivering and crying at the same time. Her head ached as she cried and I sat there beside her. My presence is not a comfort to anyone, but to her I was. She looked me in the eye in such a way that I had to get up and leave. 

Catherine had stopped playing outside after that. She stayed in, reading books that her brother had taught her. Samuel tried getting her out of the house but to no avail. Her eyes would well whenever he asked her to go out, so he stopped persuading her. She fought the battle for two years, and then she finally invited me over. Trust me she fought hard, to stay alive, and that day she stepped out when her father left for the mines. She walked to the Westminster bridge and jumped. She didn’t fight this time, but she didn’t die.

She got caught and Samuel brought her home.

“You are not telling this to anyone.” He looked her in the eye and said that to her. The dim light of the basement was enough for him to spot the sadness on her face.

She nodded. After an hour she finally said something. “Did he do the same when you arrived late?”

Samuel nodded.

That night Samuel confronted his father, before leaving his house. “I wish you hadn’t come home. I have been wishing that for many years.” 

He said and stormed out of the house with his sister. Do you know what the sad part is? Samuel meant what he said to his father. And you know what’s sadder? Being invisible and watching a fifteen-year-old boy, walking in the wintry streets of London, homeless with his little sister. 

There are so many stories that I have seen, so many lives that are worth a novel. But I can’t do justice to all, by mere use of words.