So Below

Their apartment was cast in darkness. The hustle and bustle outside died to ash about an hour ago. An overhead fan whirred as loudly as the growing buzz between their ears. They tried turning on some sort of light, earlier. A shoddy lamplight; the golden glow appearing like an illness. The small monitor served as their TV. All they were granted was static. It was just too much.

They hunched over their desk chair, old, gray, and ratty. One of the black wheels gave up, eventually. They listlessly stared ahead at the static, the fuzzy patterns bleeding behind their eyes. 

Work felt like too much. They adored the children's grinning faces, the splatter of shock coloring their expressions at something they'd say. They loved to watch them learn, to freely joke around, to breathe without looking over their shoulder. How their students morphed the classroom into more of a festival. Creating lesson plans, being swamped by deadlines, remembering each moving part of teaching, though.

It was utterly nauseating. They'd go into work as early as a bird, teach every class, and they would leave the building understanding nothing. They'd go home to TV dinners and a stark, lonely quiet. Silence was a friendship they knew so well. It stalked after them, even when they were little. A bit more joyful. Their dear friend only grew sharper, taller, as time went by. As they racked up experiences. They drew a line in the sand so many years ago, and they tried so hard to hold onto a fraying rope. 

They convinced themselves it would be better, by then. By an arbitrary number. Shifting goalposts as if they knew how to play ball.

People. People would at least miss them. They'd remember one of their, no, a strong majority of their coworkers were gutted by the passing of a student. They couldn't recall if they were, as well. The day felt like a faraway dream. Dismal and forming into scattering sand. Had they sent money to the family? They might have. Not enough to make an impact.

An impact. 

They had none. 

Half-lidded brown eyes slowly drifted towards a notepad. They eventually stopped bothering to journal. The notepad was an indulgence never fulfilled, the outside plastered in cute animal stickers and encouragement. It was open right down the middle, the pages, of course, blank.

Would it be worth it, to write something down?

Getting their thoughts out into the world still felt daunting. Apologies wouldn't waste their breath, even if they choked on them. It was the principle of politeness, wasn't it? Cramming themselves into a too-tight box. It gave others more space, and that's what people deserved. Breathing room, the capability to unerringly exist.

It was exhausting, feeling so small in a world too massive. Too brutal. Shutting out the light hadn't been enough. They greedily wished for more and wanted what they got, those were the words whispered in their ears for so long. How could they not believe in them? With repetition bloomed understanding, didn't it?

They didn't enjoy making messes. Being too loud, too much in a room. A quiet, quaint privacy suited them best.

The stove was on. Their smoke alarms were removed and stuffed into the freezer. A pot was brewing from the kitchen. They limply smiled as their head spun about like a carousel. They inhaled for four, the pungent, razor-sharp smell of gas bringing them to a blank space.

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They awoke to hazy, unending white.

Am I-?

They stopped themselves short. They weren't sure if it was relief that caught in their throat or dread. 

Just as before, low buzzing filtered between their ears. It was a quiet drone of rumbling, a cymbal crash of swaying waves. A wringing, twisting lurch of a tight rope. Whispers crooned from around them. They swallowed, peering at the bleak sheet. It only glanced back.

With nothing more to do, they took a hesitant step. Left foot first. Their quiet footfall thundered, rattling. The whispers grew just a tad louder, still unintelligible. An aborted noise followed, a cross between the errant buzzing of a fly and an incomplete series of clicks. Radio static, perhaps. They wouldn't know.

'Do you know who you will be?' A voice intoned in their head.

They went wide eyed and their budding bravery remained short-lived.

What?  They could only spare to reply.

There was a twinkle of a laugh, indulgent and so utterly patient. It twisted them up. Joy swept into haunting contempt, for just a breath. As if responding to their mood, the chuckle gradually fell to ash. Another question split the dense air.

'Do you wish to change? Will you continue to reign your life with stagnation?'  

They wanted their circumstances to change. They waited, waited, waited for a pay off. Really, for someone to yank them out from their darkness. A selfish wish that didn't even serve them. Bravery was something earned, and they couldn't muster up the effort. Their life could transform all they wanted, but the end result might as well be parallel. But.

'Will you continue to reign your life with stagnation?'

But. 

They could have the space to try, they guessed.

"I'd like. To try being different." They murmured.

There was another laugh, sounding like approval. 

'Then, you must remember to never let your little light falter. It shall carry you far.'

The ropes continued to sway and the rhythm of a distant sea rose to a chorus. It felt like the beginning of a promise. 

'State your name, wear it with pride.' 

They held no love for their name, feeling it was as lonely as them. An outlier. Something to scrub away. If they wanted a new start, then they'd need to forge a new identity. And maybe, they'd eventually forget. Throw out the old and embrace the new. 

A distant chord in their heart twisted.

"My name is-"

They breathed in. They breathed out.

"It's Satoshi, now." 

Satoshi didn't declare it with confidence. Only a feeble resolve. Yet, it felt right enough.

Gray fog spanned across the white space, and an echo of a laugh followed after them.

'May you be victorious.'