LIBERATING EDUCATION 095 ST PATRICK’S COLLEGE STRATHFIELD LUMEN 2024 Ever since I was a young boy, I had never particularly fancied the presence of other people. I had always been a recluse of sorts, only ever interacting with others when absolutely necessary, not out of fear, but out of a conscious decision that I feel I had made all the way back when I first developed a true understanding of the world around me. There’s something about hearing another person speaking and hearing perspectives that differ from mine, when I always know that I am correct and objective, that truly unsettles me. That is partly the reason I moved here, to a farm in the middle of nowhere where I could do everything myself without having even to lock eyes with another human being. The nighttime there truly comforted me, for when the air was cold, the silence allowed me to engulf myself in my own sweet soliloquy, a perfect voice with perfect thoughts. One fateful night, however, everything changed. It was a regular, blissful night in the middle of October where I lay in my bed, engulfing myself in the expansive crepuscular void of pitch-black sky which painted itself with miniature pearlescent stars, drowning myself in the comforting song of my own superior thoughts, when suddenly, it began. A rhythmic tapping, followed by a faint, but blaringly obvious scratch rung out through my room. Usually, I would have located the source of the noise and eradicated it immediately, but this noise was different… It had no direct source. It felt like it was in my head, but I knew this could not be. I did not feel fear, and neither did I feel confusion, for more than anything, I was angry. “Who dare interrupt my train of thought?” I cried out in my mind, but the only response was the bitter attack of my own echo, followed by the booming, deafening roar of silence. And the noise was gone. The next few nights passed as usual, although I couldn’t shake the omnipresent linger of impending uneasiness that came with the sudden appearance of that sound. I managed to push it to the back of my mind, and it stayed there for a few more nights, until suddenly, it returned, this time even louder than before. The blaring scratches forced themselves into my ears, pushing their way through my thoughts and into the centre stage of my mind. The scratching continued and echoed violently, morphing and twisting into a symphonic cacophony of nightmarish melodies, their dissonance abrasively invading my mind, resulting in me screaming. This scream, however, was the worst thing I could have done, for the second I let it out, it echoed right back at me, relentless and unforgiving. I tried to block my ears. I tried turning the power off. I tried everything. But this nightmarish sound seemed to mock me from inside. I had always been calm, collected, calculated, and peaceful, but for the first time in my life, this ghoulish echo had haunted me with genuine fear. For the next few nights it continued, and I laid, eyes wide open, until eventually, it climaxed to a point where it was too much, so I decided to run. I didn’t care where, but I ran, and the noise chased after; it was a predator, and I was its prey. As I continued my futile efforts to flee into the darkness, I found myself in a time that was neither night nor day, but some lurid third interval whispered of only in the wise words uttered in the ancient tomes of the sybils of mythology. The same crepuscular void full of mysteries, known to humanity as the night sky, encapsulated me as always, but something was different. It no longer brought me comfort but instilled within me a deep and intrinsic terror which painted me a mere noctivagant slave to the cruel sound which continued to echo everywhere I went. No one believes me, but I know what I heard. They paint my image as that of a psychopath, crazed by the tolls of isolation, but I know what I heard. They dismiss my tales and mock my words as the incoherent ramblings of a maniac gripping onto whatever last remnants of sanity he has left, but I know what I heard. Every specialist, doctor, or therapist has spoken to me as if I was insane, but I know what I still hear. I don’t know why this happened to me specifically, but what I do know is that it did happen, or maybe I really am delusional; a pathetic excuse for a man forever corrupted by the company of solitude. ENGLISH CREATIVE WRITING Luca Franze Year 9
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