Beyond The Four Walls

The curtains hadn't been opened in weeks. The room was a coffin of shadows where dust clung to the air like a second skin. The only sounds were the stubborn ticking of the old analogue clock on the wall and low hum of my computer - white noise for a life that had stopped moving. My world had shrunk to four walls, a chipped mug of cold coffee on the nightstand, and the rancid stench of stale bread left over from last night's half-hearted midnight snack. A sharp twinge in my chest reminded me I was still alive - or close enough.

Last week I turned twenty-one. Funny thing about birthdays - people suddenly remember you exist. My phone buzzed like it had something important to say, but every message was the same: Hope you have a great day!

If they meant it, they'd actually be here. One text a year was apparently all I was worth. Another year older, another year closer to proving natural selection is a scam. If idiots like this were still alive, clearly evolution had gotten tired halfway and just clocked out.

Some of them even showed up, surprisingly. Half the faces wore guilt like badly-fitted masks; the other half came for the free food. "Make a wish!" someone shouted as the candles flickered. I leaned forward and blew them out with all the passion of a man extinguishing a cigarette.

Cheers erupted like I just cured cancer. Congratulations, everyone - you've witnessed the miracle of a functioning lung.

"Speech!" someone cried.

I raised my glass, lips curling into the fakest smirk I could manage. "To another year of surviving humanity. Barely."

They laughed. They always laughed. To them I was clever, maybe even darkly funny. To me, it was truth wrapped in sarcasm. I didn't believe in "special days," "fresh starts," or "new chapters". I believed in one thing only - looking out for myself. Because if life was just a room full of hollow words and pity smiles, then pretending otherwise was the real joke.

A knock at my door dragged me back to the present. My grandmother's voice filtered through, soft and careful, as if afraid I might break. "Mornin', Luke. I'm off to a friend's for lunch. I left your new friend's number by the door..."

Silence. I held my breath, hoping she'd give up.

"I left some breakfast too... even if it's a bit cold". A pause, then softer, "Okay, bye."

Her footsteps faded, and finally the front door clicked shut. Relief. I hated pity. Hers. Theirs. Mine. It was all the same. If anything, her kindness only made the weight heavier.

The "new friend" she mentioned was the neighbour's son I'd met yesterday. A kid, maybe nineteen, who tried to smile but couldn't hide the flicker of disgust in his eyes when he looked at me. My grandmother either didn't notice or pretended not to.

The last time we spoke, she tried motivating me, but I just brushed it off thinking it was pointless. She thought it ended well, but it didn’t. Not for me, anyway.

“You’re not filling those out,” she said, nodding at the papers.

I scratched at the corner of the table, head low, jaw tight. I didn’t respond.

She poured boiling water into two chipped mugs. The steam rose between them, thin and fragile. “I know you’ve been trying. Those interviews. But you walk in already beaten.”

“Doesn’t matter how I walk in. They already know.” I said reluctantly, trying to defend my point

Her gaze lingered on me. “About your previous job?”

I gave a single nod.

“They poison your name, and you let them. That’s what hurts me, Luke. Not what they did. What you do to yourself after.”

I leaned back, arms crossed, eyes on the grant forms.

“I can’t live off this money forever,” she went on, voice tightening. “Neither can you. Grants run out. Pity runs out. And when it does, what will you have left?”

I finally looked up at her, eyes tired, flat. “Nothing.”

The word hung there. She flinched, as though it were a knife.

“You’re twenty-one,” she said softly. “Twenty-one isn’t nothing. You’re supposed to be starting your life, not burying it.”

I sighed, “It feels buried already.”

Her hands curled around the mug, knuckles pale. “You think the world cares if you stop fighting? It doesn’t. It’ll move on. I’ll move on—because I’ll have to. And you’ll still be here, in this house, with those papers, waiting for something that never comes.”

Silence stretched. Only the clock ticked, steady and merciless.

Finally, she said, “You remind me of your father, near the end. He thought if he stopped moving, maybe the world would finally stop kicking him. But it never did. It just kicked harder.”

I looked away, back at the forms. My shoulders sagged.

She reached across the table, laying her hand near mine. Not touching, just close enough. “If you won’t fight for yourself, then fight for me. Just long enough to remember what it feels like.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t answer. The clock ticked on.

I wish I could disappear, to my own island, to a place far from here. No neighbours. No noise. Just me. Then I'd be content. But every day I promised myself I'd change. That I'd crawl out of this pit, piece my life back together. And every night, I swore tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, I'd start over.

But tomorrow never came.

A buzz from my phone snapped me back to the present. It was just a reminder for the interview that I had today. Do I really want to go? Do I want another 40-year-old in a cheap tie tell me I’m not a ‘team fit?’ Even if I got the job, do I really want to sit in an office, listening to co-workeers who had already given up on life?

I pushed myself off the bed, body moving on autopilot through a fog of thought. The next moment was a blur. A sudden lightness, a collapse, the dull thud of my body hitting the floor. My chest clenched tight. The thoughts left my mind feeling numb. Breaths turned shallow, jagged, like my lungs had finally decided enough was enough. My heartbeat stuttered, frantic, then faltering.

And for the first time in years, my thoughts weren't about me. They were about the things I hadn't done, the people I never said goodbye to, the question of whether anyone would notice I was gone.

Then came the darkness. And it wasn't terrifying it was release. Life had been too heavy. Too exhausting. Maybe this was mercy.

~ ~ ~

When I opened my eyes, everything was different. The suffocating dust, the sour stench - they were gone. I lay on soft earth beneath a sky so sharp and endless it looked like it could swallow me whole. The air was alive, filled with the scent of rain-soaked leaves and wild, untamed greenery. It reminded me of the plants I once tried to keep alive, long since withered from neglect.

But this wasn't home.

For a fleeting moment, I thought I had finally escaped. That death had given me peace. But the forest stretched endlessly, vast and alive in a way my world had never been.

That's when I realized the truth.

I hadn't escaped anything.