Young Writers Society

He lay, like a fallen statue amongst the ruin of stone. Richard’s eyes flickered open, squinting at the sudden intake of light. His hair was white from the dust and dirt it had gathered, making him look even more unruly than he usually did.

Jugged debris poked his body from all sides. For this I was partly thankful. As unfocused and unsettled as he was, the pain brought along a measure of self-conscience (ironically enough). Propping his elbows against the cold, hard rock, Richard pushed himself off the ground, wincing as he did. His mouth opened and shut several times in a soundless cry of pain as the blood began to circulate fully once more, making him rub his wrists and legs as the feeling returned.

Something far worse than blood also rushed in. Something which left him with the taste of ashes lingering in his mouth, and a tight fist constricting the thumping of his heart. Memories. The screaming sirens, the run home, the bombs, the rubble, then blackness.

“Mum”. It was more of a croak than a word. It had risen to his lips so readily, with such intense feeling, he had been unable to hold it in, tumbling up inside him.

“Mum”.

But Rose did not answer. She as entombed a few feet away, in the rubble that had once been her home, even when so many had fled. Richard’s explicit rejection of her had sucked what was left of life from her body. She felt a ghost as she trundled up the stairs. The sound of her dress sliding across the floor became the whisperings of her haunted world. Sirens had blared. She stood in her room, slipping a gentle hand down her back to unlace the black dress so fatefully worn.

It was in this state of undress they found her, and descended upon her family’s house as she missed a step, felt her ankle crack and heard the sharp snapping sound underneath the thundering of bombs and the loud cracking and shattering of roof beams. And so she lay, dead, in what could either be a strapless dress, or a state of undress.

Richard’s eyes rested on the grave, unbelieving, refusing to believe. But the tears ran their course still. He stood there, a proper statue now, albeit one which represented more of a hobo in torn clothes than royalty.

Under other circumstances, the thought of directly communicating with Richard would have had me positively buzzing with intensity. But Rose was entombed in the rubble

Minutes ticked by. First one, then another, until I lost count of how long he had been standing there.

Richard was not the only one at a loss. How was I going to initiate this?

He thought he was alone. Mostly every conscience I talk to has the same problem, a human who thinks that his thoughts are his own to keep and guard. This is not the case. Thankfully, there have been certain exceptional humans over the years, to whom consciences revealed themselves, who led a successful life, which released some of the tension I felt building up at that moment.

Out of these few people, there have been those, specially assigned by Life, directed to raise awareness regarding the existence of consciences. Martin Luther was one. Of course, this has to be done very subtly, otherwise all that will come out of it is ridicule and, perhaps, prosecution.

This subtlety I am talking about here, is morality. The fight for religious toleration is a prime example of these enlightened humans’ work. Wars begin in our world, not the human world. They are, however, fought in both. The war in the name of religion is an exception. Consciences are called to serve, not to speculate. We never partook in what led to the wars of faith, although we did partake of the atrocities committed during them, I am ashamed to say. What Life did then was to summon certain highly-esteemed consciences and charge them with the duty to encourage their humans to spring forth the idea of religious toleration into the human world.

Unfortunately, there are certain repercussions, following wars, which have long-lasting effects on the human population, not the conscience one. We learn to forgive and forget, whereas people tend towards nourishment of grudges.

All this, sad to say, is not common knowledge. Not that it should be. At least, if Richard was familiar with the concept of myself, it would have made what I was about to attempt that much easier. I cannot begin to list the number of times I have tried to hammer into Richard’s brain and make myself heard. Many times I succeeded. Not that he would have taken me for ‘another person’, if you will. He would have simply thought of me as his ‘inner voice’, a cover consciences have adapted ease our workload.

However, it’s one thing to help guide a human’s actions, quite another to officially break the communication barrier. It has come to be considered as sacred, one incredibly fraught with dangers. Imagine, out of nowhere, another ‘person’ plops into your head and starts chattering away. You might get used to it, eventually, but after spending so many years believing your thoughts are a secret known only to yourself, when you’re actually sharing them with another entity, sometimes humans find our revelation too much to handle at one time. This may lead to serious, grave impairments inflicted on both of us – the human and the conscience for here, we can speak of an intertwined existence, a shared life.

This is why I never considered the possibility. Until now. A 14-year old does not know how to lead an independent life. Not on his own. And when there aren’t even any neighbours around, as they have all sought safer place to live far enough from the war, drastic measure assume a dimension of acceptability. And so I steeled myself, drew upon my deepest wells of courage and strength, and dove in.

Richard, I uttered cautiously.

If there is someone behind me, please go away, he pleaded silently. He did not want to face anyone.

The advent of direct communication should have been my ultimate achievement. At that moment, I did not consider it to be so. It was certainly a moment to revel about. Finally, I could guide my boy more directly. Humans place far more emphasis on words than emotions or actions. Yet, I wasn’t even sure he would respond to me.

Consciences never use their voice explicitly. We’ve never had to. The ‘inner voice’ disguise suits us well enough. Images and feelings are superior to the mediums of the human world. Voices are deceptive. Think about it. A conscience expresses thoughts through its own emotions, rendering the telling of untruths impossible. Speech paves the path for the sins consciences have worked so hard to eradicate; lying, backstabbing, insulting, breaking promises. People cannot lie to their feelings. They lie to themselves and others through language.

But now I was boxed in on all sides. Contacting Richard was inevitable.

Richard, I repeated.

His eyes opened wide and stiffened, frozen on the spot.

I couldn’t take the silence any longer.

For heaven’s sake say something!

Suddenly I felt an onrush of emotions burst. The tumult of feeling evolved into a bubble of panic climbing crescendo after crescendo. Richard’s fists flew towards his temples so quickly I barely had time to yell out.

Stop! Richard, I am your conscience and I will not have you inflicting self-harm on my behalf. Please refrain from doing so, whether you are in my presence or not. Now if you could kindly respond to my message, I would be grateful for the concrete proof that I am actually speaking and not hallucinating. And you don’t have to speak. I can hear you.

For the record, I can recall this occasion perfectly for two reasons: I was conducting a conversation with my human for the first time.

I am mad, he stated inwardly.

Not on my watch you aren’t. You’re only mad if your conscience is unusually deformed. Rest assured I am quite intact, thank you.

Who are you?

I am your conscience. You are not going mad, you were, are and will certainly remain sane and there is nothing wrong with you. I am simply your inner voice which happens to be exactly what the name implies.

Am I demented?

Richard. This may prove to be a bit of an exacting task, but I beg you to stay calm. Now, I’ve thought about what we’re going to do. Your mum mentioned this relative of yours, the bird-named lady. Yes I know she’s bound to be a grumpy old witch but she’s the only lead we’ve got. Might as well fish her out of her cosy hidey-hole and blackmail her into accepting you. But you must focus, another air raid could come any minute now, and the bombs will break more than just your home.

I barely managed to conclude the last few words, before I began to curse myself inwardly at my ineptitude. Bringing up Rose in such a tactless manner doubled Richard’s pain. The thing was, I myself didn’t know how to confront my boy on the subject. Emotions are a human’s burden to bear. Obviously, being a conscience, I do know quite a bit about this and actually suffer from quite a familiar ‘concept’. I call them levels. I can feel intensity, excitement, anxiety, to varying degrees, but I don’t know happiness or grief. Nevertheless, given that the existence of a conscience and its human are so intertwined, it is inevitable that when emotions wash over Richard and dictate his actions, I feel the intensity of his dominant feeling. At that moment, I was a blinking red, but concentrating was a must.

My only option was to take the boy to Mdina where his aunt, Mrs Falcón, lived. Even if she blatantly refused to bring him up, the Silent City was the safest place in Malta at the time, or at least, one of the safest.

Our surroundings here remained as broken as ever. I longed for a change of scenery. If only my diplomatic skills were a bit better!

I kept expecting sirens to start wailing with every second that passed.

I tried to find the missing link, what was lacking in my communication skills that my images and emotions were so full of. It took me a few minutes to realise what it was – images conveyed the truth easily, no shades of grey. So I tried again.

Richard. I know you’re hurt, but the reality is nothing can be done. As your conscience, my job is to reduce the amount of grief transferred to your soul. You’d die if I abandoned you to yourself.

I’d rather be dead.

You can’t say that. You musn’t.

“Mum!” he screamed aloud this time as the tears overflowed, dripping onto his clothes. Pain seared through the parched wall of his throat. Pity welled up inside me. Furiously, he started pushing, clawing and scrabbling at his mother’s tomb – the ruined house. He pummelled it with his fists and clawed, breaking fingernails and opening the half-healed scars on his knees as the rubble trumped him, over and over again.

The sun was directly above us, beating down heavily on his head. Richard broke in beads of sweat, oblivious to the flies buzzing around him.

A few minutes passed before he collapsed again on the piles of stone adorned in blood from his broken fingernails, scraped knees and elbows. At the very least, the exercise seemed to have brought him that much more to his senses.

I ploughed on, insistent:

You’re hungry and thirsty. Death will come again soon. Trust me, you’re better off not meeting him.

Richard closed his eyes. I feared he was on the verge of madness. His life lay in ruins all round him, and I had just opened myself to him. I thought he felt it was all too much to bear.

This is madness. What are you, how are you inside me and get out, get out, get out!

He brought two fists up and drove them into either side of his head. Then he stood up in his dusty, blood-stained clothes, the torn shreds of clothing revealing his knees and elbows and wiped his nose with his hand. Etiquette was beyond him now, and there was a long road ahead.