Thy Fearful Symmetry by Richard Wright

Author:Richard Wright [Wright, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-08-17T06:00:00+00:00

For a few blissful moments, as he emerged from a dark place like sleep, Clive didn't know anything was wrong. He was cold, all the way through, but he knew he would open his eyes and find out that this was because it was winter, and the heating was off, and the duvet had slipped from him, and Heather had already climbed out of bed to brew the coffee. In that dozing, semi-conscious state, Clive had a last moment of being truly himself, the man he had been before gods and monsters made him a pawn.

A moment before he opened his eyes, the truth washed over him, but because the truth was impossible he denied it to himself, even though he felt hard tarmac beneath him, heard the shouts of people along the street and the horrified mutterings of those nearby. He smelled burning and tasted ash on his tongue.

Clive opened his eyes, and saw that a thick fog had fallen. The world was hazy and grey, and he understood that something was wrong with his eyes. It was like trying to see through a thin film of milk.

“Hey,” a male voice said. “Were his eyes open a minute ago?”

“I don't know,” a woman answered. “I don't think...”

Clive turned his head slightly to find the source of the voice, a young student wearing flowing black, with too much dark eyeliner and a bulging midriff on display that would be better concealed. That small movement, which took more effort than it should have because his neck was so stiff, sparked a disproportionate response.

The woman screamed, high and shrill, her hands going to her face, and her skinny goth boyfriend dragged her back, out of harm's way. The curious mixture of drunken bohemians around them followed suit, the loose circle of fleeing vultures expanding outwards like the ripples of a stone landing in water.

Clive knew why. They were running because they had seen a blue-light angel punch into his chest, seize his heart, and rip it free. They were running because the laws of existence said that he should not have opened his eyes after that.

Clive pushed himself to a sitting position, watching the people run, seeing the foggy blurs of their faces as they looked back for confirmation of what they had seen. Loose things shifted against each other in his chest, bits of bone sloshing around in congealing fluids, grinding against one another.

There was no pain, he realised, as he raised himself to his hands and knees. Touching his finger to his chest, he found the wet, open wound in the centre, where he had lost his heart.

No loss, he corrected himself, a grin twitching over his face. Clive's heart had not worked properly for days. The boy he had put in hospital, whose name he could not even remember, would not agree that Clive had a good heart. Heather, who he was supposed to love, would not have thought so either - certainly not while he was tracing the knife through her skin, as though he could surgically remove the information he had needed.

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