Young Writers Society

Richard swung his legs over the bed, squinting as the bright rays of the sun brushed the sleep from his eyes. Air raids terrorised citizens out of their sanity but mother was there to console him whenever the siren screamed. She could not be there in his dreams as well and that was why the latter were far more taxing on him. Furthermore, he could pray with Rose for the duration of the air raid to feel safe. In his dreams, he was utterly helpless to what Sleep had in store for him.

I always thought it was a bizarre sight whenever Rose and Richard were huddled together in the basement, for I cannot recall any other act of intimacy. Maybe that was the only way mother and son could prove their undying love for husband and father and for each other. Perhaps they felt guilty if they enjoyed each other’s company in Patrick’s absence.

Whatever their reason, I will never know. Richard is a very difficult person to understand. Besides I am hardly ever free to roam about with others of my kind, for even during sleep I cannot abandon the boy. But I digress.

Richard hasn’t changed much now. I often think he resembles a drunken gentleman after a scandalous night of unbridled bliss with a strange lady when he wakes up. Minutes crawl past before he actually wills himself to get off the bed and stretch his arms, legs and every other part of his body that can crack. His days follow a common (and if I may say, boring) protocol: down into the kitchen for breakfast and back upstairs to his library. Richard rarely leaves the books once inside, except for meals. At times he even sleeps on a book instead of going to his bedroom. If I could yawn, I would.

Unfortunately, I just have to grin and bear it (in a manner of speaking, of course, for no conscience can carry out any physical manifestation). Complaints on my part are also out of the question although I often wonder whether or not I should throw caution to the wind and stray away from Richard, just to know what freedom feels like again. But I’ve witnessed what happens to humans who are abandoned by their consciences. I can’t bear to think of Richard in that state. I would never rest at ease if I had to live with the knowledge that I once ruined a young child’s life. Then there was the prospect of facing Life (I will explain later who She is) and I certainly do not want to spend eternity in atonement.

Oh, but where are my manners? I am recounting a story, or rather, a short biography, without introducing myself. I am Richard’s conscience. Of course, I am assuming that the more perceptive of you have realised this by now. I will not tell you my name, for I have none. However, for the sake of referring to me, you may call me Conscience. It is, I believe, an appropriate name, for I am probably the only one you will have the honour of meeting, albeit through a story.

Please do not commit the terrible mistake of calling me conscious consciously. I will not have myself degraded to an adjective on account of mispronunciation blunders, especially by some dumb illiterate.

Just an aside – humans cannot comprehend how numerous we are. There are so many of us I am inclined to believe we shift closer to infinity than any number. The reason for this is that a conscience never totally dies; it fades away but shimmers on the brink of existence; the strong ones actually recover at some point in time.

Anyway, a conscience defines ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ for its individual and outlines the duties of its human. Unfortunately, because of Life’s tyranny, independent notions of ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ are strongly discouraged. Consequently, conversation between consciences is only permissible between members of the same human family. Can you imagine what would happen if we held liberal discussions regarding scruples and what not? Good heavens, we’d end up as faulty as you people. However, this does not exclude personal grudges or the divulging of secrets. One family member talks about it, another eavesdrops, gossips about it to a relative who finds it interesting and decides to act the part of a story-teller. And so on and so forth.

But enough about myself really, this is my boy’s story.

I will leave out the explicit details concerning how and where Richard came into this world, for I do not wish to embarrass anyone at this point. I expect your parents explained it to you when you were twelve. Neither do I wish myself to erupt in a state of acrimony.

He was a plump child; I distinctly remember matching him with a swamp frog. Nowadays, he’s far better looking. The best way to describe him is slight. Everything about him is slight – his frame, his nose, his mouth, his ears (the boy was decidedly weedy) - save for his eyes. My Richard has long lashes, overlooking feminine Egyptian eyes the colour of disturbed earth. In contrast, short, he has golden tufts for hair, as if wheat had just been planted on his head.

Now about his past. Although the family endured many forms of hardship, Richard grew steadily. Notwithstanding the fact that they were not the ideal Maltese family (the father was English, she was Maltese), the cumbersome difficulties they overcame only strengthened the bond between the three. Such difficulties came in the form of sickness and inhabitancy on a lizard-infested rock specialising in ignorance. The nail in the coffin, however, was struck when temporary unemployment befell the unfortunate father, reducing them to near poverty. They came out of that one with the sudden threat of war. When he left to train as a pilot, the family broke down in ruins, like a vase hurled forcefully at the wall.

The two remaining members dealt with his departure in their own ways. Richard hid away behind his books and Rose devoted her attention to cooking and other household chores.

Let me take you back to the morning after the air raid. As was his custom, Richard dragged his feet downstairs into the kitchen. Rose was already there, preparing breakfast. The apron around her waist was so tight I was surprised it didn’t cut off her circulation. She always looked like a mum out of a children’s storybook at that time of the morning. The boy plonked himself down into the nearest seat and hid his head in his arms on the uncomfortable wooden table. I hated this tangible silence between them more than the disastrous attempts at conversation which usually followed. It was like the chirping of the birds in a forest; if you hear it, your mind does not register its omnipresence, whereas the lack of it would make you feel uneasy. I sensed something was out of place. That’s the thing with us consciences; premonition is both our weakness and strength.

Richard sensed it too. His mother did not seem as flustered as she usually does. Rose was going about her duties calmer than he was accustomed to, which immediately aroused my suspicion.

For the moment, I must stop my account. Even after all we have been through, my boy still requires my diligent attention and I must not fail him. As the Maltese say, x’pacenzja. I must be patient.

5