i found this in TOK class this morning while searching for an old essay.
it’s a short story i wrote for philosophy the morning it was due last year. i still handed it in late.
it was supposed to examine ethics and morals and blah blah blah, so i incorporated notions of utilitarianism and the categorical imperative and probably some other stuff.
it’s called alice. it’s pretty crap, but i like the ending, and i figured someone dying of boredom might want to read it.
so here it is:
ALICE.
A flash of a camera, another pose, another direction; she turned and did what she was told.
“I need more energy!” he said from behind the lens.
But he didn’t know how she suffered; how her lungs strained with every movement – how loudly her stomach growled.
“Alright, everybody take five.”
She sat down next to the snack bar and eyed the food with longing and self-pity. She had half a mind to reach out and grab a baby carrot, but stopped herself from going that far.
Alice of the poor country, Alice of the poor village, of the old times. Seeing how stunningly, breathtakingly beautiful her porcelain face was, the elders leapt at the opportunity to send her out into the world outside the village walls and have her face gain fame and fortune; she would be the saviour of their dying village; she would bring prosperity and hope. Alice was a different kind of girl, one that they knew would survive in the real world. As soon as she turned sixteen, she was taken to New York to start her career as an international supermodel. But there was a price to pay; she could not eat. Beautiful Alice absolutely adored food. Pastries, entrees, hors-d’oeuvres, main courses, she ate it all. But once she got a little taste of something, she could not stop herself and just kept consuming, eating and eating to her heart’s content. But her body didn’t take to food well. She was not always so incredibly thin and lithe; in fact, back in the village, she was one of the heaviest girls in sight. When she ate, she gained weight, and it happened fast. So she gave up food and lost weight and was herself eaten up by the exclusive world of high fashion. Now she was everywhere; billboards, magazines, runways all over the world. And all the money she earned, she sent back to her village. She was their beacon of light; their hope in lost times.
Bit by bit, she was slowly dying. She was wasting away, fading in the world of big city lights. But it was for the best. She was making the right choice; she was the sacrificial lamb to save her homeland. She knew what she was doing would kill her, but that was a small price to pay to save so many people. It used to be eating that made her happy. But she sacrificed this happiness for an even greater one; she found joy in knowing she was saving her people. So many depended on her now; there was no backing down.
“Alright, back on the set!”
Her eyes darted away from the carrots. Slowly, she made her way in front of the camera.
Another flash, another pose, another day.
Alice: beautiful and delicate and oh so hungry.
. . . . .
‘Alice,
Things are better now thanks to you. The crops are growing again and the children can play outside instead of work. Do you remember how this was your favourite time of year? When winter leaves us and it just starts to get warm? You remember how you would say it was a good change? There are lots of good changes now, and they’re all thanks to you. We miss you Alice. Maybe one day, the elders will let you visit. Some day, I will see you again, and the angels will sing for us.
With all my love,
Papa’
“Eat something,” he said from behind the kitchen counter.
“Damien,” she trailed off.
She was sitting at the dining table, back slouched, head resting on her arms. Another letter in a maroon envelope had come to solidify her resolve. They let her know what she was doing was right.
“I made you dinner,” he said gently, laying a plate of pasta in front of her.
She stared at the offending noodles and sauce.
“You know I can’t,” she said softly, walking to the sink and pouring herself a glass of water. She was getting weaker. The weight of the glass was getting difficult to bear.
She drank the silence with the water and could feel the fury in the air. She turned and caught him breathing heavy breaths, running his hand through his hair, eyes tearing up. Poor Damien, always angry with his own helplessness.
He was her closest friend, her other half. They grew up together, knew, trusted and completed each other. Alice couldn’t be alone, so they sent him with her, to watch her and help her and be there for her. Even they knew she would need a companion. But it was torture to see him there, so angry with himself and hating the world. He reminded her of the old times, when they would play in the meadows and bask in the sunlight of days that were so careless and free from obligation. How tender the air was between them when they picked wild berries and ate them together, always making a mess of their clothes. How she wished they could just go out now, find a field and eat wild berries, make a mess of their clothes.
“You know I have to do this,” she said.
He looked up and there was a distance in her eyes.
“Alice, they sent me with you as your watch,” there was a sternness in his voice, “but I can’t bear to see you like this.”
He got up and walked towards her and as she lowered her glance, he rooted himself only inches away. He was taller than she was, warmer than she was. She could feel the heat radiating off of his body; there was a passion in him. But she could not give him what he wanted.
“So go back,” she said coldly and drifted off to her room where she locked the door and went to sleep.
He stood at the sink all alone now, eyes brimming with tears. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. He knew what they wanted from her; they wanted her to die for them. But inside, he knew it wasn’t worth it. What kind of solution was that? What would they do after she was gone? Find someone else to sacrifice? He would not let them take her. He loved her; oh how he loved her. With everything he had, he loved her. His heart pumped blood that sang with her voice and it was her life with which he breathed. No, he would not let them take her. For the sake of future victims and their lovers, he would not let them take her. He would do what she told him to do. Yes, he would go back.
. . . . .
They sat at the dinner table a few months later waiting for guests to arrive for their thanksgiving feast. Damien got up to get the turkey and said something that made her laugh. Alice was a girl who could laugh now, no longer burdened by the pressures of her village.
One day, the maroon envelopes just stopped coming. She waited and waited, but not a word, so Damien went back to find an explanation. Two days later, he returned bearing wonderful news; Anna, all brilliance and grace, had been chosen to be sent out next and had become a successful doctor. She was their new beacon of light and Alice was free to do what she wished.
“I knew it,” she had whispered so tenderly, “I knew they wouldn’t let me…I knew they would find a way.”
And Damien had walked towards her, took her in his arms and gave her a tender and loving kiss. And they were happy.
They stayed in New York on Damien’s insistence; he had grown to love the big city lights. Alice quit modeling the very next day. There was a brilliant liberty in being able to eat whatever she wanted, and Damien was happy to cook her anything and everything. She spent those first few post-fashion days exploring the restaurants of New York. Damien got a job as a chef and Alice decided to work at a second hand bookstore, for she had always loved reading as a child. She began to fall in love with life again. She grew round and plump, and Damien loved her for it and things were good for a while.
But thanksgiving night, the doorbell rang. As Alice approached the front door, Damien still talking at her from the other room, she noticed something on the doormat; an all too familiar maroon envelope. Her heart pounded against her chest as she slowly bent over and picked it up. A paper cut as she opened it, a few drops of blood on the paper, and as she licked her wound, she began to read.
‘Damien,
Things have gotten worse. Illness has spread and we cannot afford medication. Children are dying, Damien; there seems to be no hope. For generations and generations, we have lived in this village, kept it pure and free from the sins of the outside world. It is in this place where I have known Summer’s middle name and tasted December’s tears. This place is ours. But it is coming to an end. God beckons us; we must leave everything we know and love. If only Alice were still with us. Every night…oh how I wish…but she is gone, and with her, all our hope. We are disbanding. Don’t write back. We will be gone before your letter reaches us. Goodbye, Damien.
With fear and loss,
Papa’
The doorbell rang again. She couldn’t hear the three knocks that followed or the mumbling on the other side of the door. In her head there was silence and in her eyes there were tears. Softly and silently, she made her way back to the dining room and stood in the middle of the floor until Damien turned around.
He was laughing at a joke that had run through his head when he turned to face her. A split second was all it took for him to notice the maroon envelope against her white dress, the tears in her eyes, and the blood on her finger.
The doorbell rang again.
And then there was silence.
It lasted for the longest time.
But eventually he broke it.
“Alice, I-“
“What did you do?”
“It…it was for the best. I was only thinking of-”
“What did you tell them!”
She was screaming now.
She looked him in the eyes, and he could see her anger – and her fear – and he still found her beautiful. And then he was sorry; not for saving her, but for letting her find out. He should’ve found the letter first. He should’ve burned it, like he always did. But he was careless, and this was the price to pay.
“I told them you were dead.”
. . . . .
“Damien,” he said gently.
“Yes, papa?” he replied.
“Last time she fell into the river. We don’t want that to happen again, do we?”
“No, papa.”
“Then you’ll do your best to keep her safe?”
“Yes, papa!”
“Good,” he smiled, and then scruffed the boy’s hair. “Go play now.”
He laughed as he slipped outside the door and saw Alice sitting in the grass.
“Finally,” she said as she smiled. And she took his hand in hers – oh, how small the hands of children could be – and led him into the forest. The light flitted through the leaves of trees as they walked and he could hear the sound of animals scurrying in the distance.
Soon they were at the meadow. Alice let go of his hand and laughed as she skipped further out. And then she dropped to the ground and just lay there, arms and legs outstretched and sprawled. Damien walked slowly and sat beside her.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Soaking up the sunlight!” she said and giggled.
“Why?”
“Because I want to,” she laughed, “Because I’m happy here. Aren’t you happy here?”
He lay down next to her and looked up at the blue sky.
“Yeah,” he said gently, “I’m happy here.”
. . . . .
The drive there had passed with silence and discomfort. Alice spent most of her time crying or asleep. He dared not even try to talk to her; he could feel the rage emanating from every pore on her body. Once in a while, he would turn to look at her, about to say something to make things better, but he would see her looking out the window, eyes full of fear and hope, and his voice would get lost in remorse.
When they got there, the village gates were open and he knew only bad things were to come. Alice got out of the car first and slowly moved towards the gates. He turned off the engine, got out and trailed behind her. Even he could feel the sorrow in the air; this was the air of a place, once loved, abandoned. And he was sure that she could feel it too.
When she got to the gates, she looked in and whimpered; she could see a couple of houses from where she stood and she could tell they were empty. There was only silence here now. And not a silence that was filled with love or anger or sadness or trepidation; this silence was just silence. It was empty. There was nothing here anymore. Everything she loved was gone. And in a split second, her heart was emptied too.
She turned to face Damien.
“You lied to me!” she screamed, as her eyes welled up with fresh tears. How much more could she cry? “You lied to me, you lied to them, you ruined everything!” “I was only trying to help you…” he said softly and reached out to hold her. But she hit his hand away and backed away from him.
“Don’t touch me!” she yelled, “You never lie, Damien! Ever! It ruins everything!”
She sobbed and collapsed to the ground.
He began to tear up as well, because he was looking at a girl who was devastated, broken and irreparable.
He walked towards her.
“I only wanted to save you.” He said as he sat down.
Her shoulders heaved with every breath.
“Save me?” she whispered, “Save me by lying to me? When has lying ever been okay, Damien? It always ends in tragedy.”
“You were killing yourself! I had to stop it!” there was a pleading in his voice now.
He looked her in the eyes and there was anger in them.
“You didn’t do this for me, Damien. You did this to yourself. You’re selfish. You’re selfish and a liar. And the price you paid was higher than my life. You ruined the lives of so many people. You never lie to me, Damien. It’s never okay. It’s never right. Ever.” Another silence, but this one was filled with love, hate, fear and sadness.
“Everything I love is gone,” she whispered.
“I’m not gone.” he said hesitantly. He was afraid now.
She looked up at him.
“You lied to me, Damien,” she was hollow, “I don’t love you.”
. . . . .
He found her lying on her bed the next day, empty of everything, even life. An empty bottle of sleeping pills stood on her bedside table, and he could still see the stains of dried tears on her face. He took her lifeless body into his arms and wept.
He was all guilt and regret. Was this his fault? Was he wrong? He saved her and killed her and now he had nothing. But leaving it alone would have condemned her to the same end. No, it wasn’t his fault. It was the village; they should not have made her do what she was doing. They forced her to hold their lives in her hands. No, it wasn’t his fault, but he was still sorry.
. . . . .
“What did my papa say to you?” she asked.
They were still in the meadow, making shapes out of clouds.
“Nothing,” he said.
She propped herself up on her elbow and turned to face him.
“No, tell me,” she said smiling.
“He just told me to keep you safe.” he smiled back.
She furrowed her brow.
“Are you sure?
“Yes,” he laughed.
"Liar.”
A pause, a silence.
“I would never lie to you.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
She lay back down and smiled to herself. The sun was warm and the clouds were nice and there was a boy lying next to her. Life was good.
“And will you?” she asked, her voice full of dreams.
“Will I what?” he was confused.
“Keep me safe?”
He took her hand in his.
“I’ll protect you forever,” he said gently.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
