Hinc illae lacrimae

I have many names.

Lim the Grim. Limbo. B-Limmer. Limmy.

I am a boy whose presence brings uncertainty, unease and awkwardness to those unfamiliar with his being.

It is part of human nature to immediately put labels on things. A plate of food: need. A raging bear: dangerous.

Brian Lim: enigma.

Few are truly aware of who I am.

I snap open my eyes, sighing when I realized I had zoned out while thinking. A moment of silence passes as I stare at the dull, wooden bookshelves adjacent to where I’m sitting. Books upon books upon books, each promising a different story, trial, or anecdote. I contemplate the differently colored spines before standing up to leave the study. I stroll down the stairs, push open the front door, make my way to the quaint little mailbox in the front of my house, and peek inside the slot.

Nothing. After all, hardly anyone passes by this way.

Eyebrow raised and frowning slightly, I make my way around the mailbox to see some very familiar labels covering its front. I lean closer to examine the same, printed words I’m used to seeing, even though they remain unchanged.

Cold. Unknown. Tenebrous. Pessimistic. Secretive. I chuckle sarcastically upon seeing them.

For how long I stood there, scrutinizing those words, absentmindedly repeating them as if they were a mantra, I do not know. But when I came to, the fire of the heavens was low on the horizon. The blue-grey sky creates a shadow over my house, and the thick forest that surrounds it begins to suffocate the fading daylight that barely filters through a thick barrier of leaves.

I turn my attention back to the mailbox. Without warning, I scratch out all the words, save for a single letter in each. When I finish, five letters in a row remain distinctly unscathed.

They spell out a single word.

With a heavy heart, I gently pat the mailbox and slowly trudge back into my dwelling as the sky darkens. Night brings darkness; out of the darkness comes demons, and out of demons comes…

I slide the many different locks of the front door into position. After all seven have been secured, I lift a heavy metal bar into its respective slot in front of the door. Just in time too, because the plangent howling and otherworldly screams have started to plague the night air.

Turning around, I make my way into the living room. The walls are painted a warm vanilla, a shocking contrast to the voracious darkness outside. A gunmetal-colored sofa lies comfortably in front of a dusty television.

A sudden, violent banging ensues on the window in front of me. Trying to ignore the snarling monstrosity slamming against the Plexiglass, I pull down the Venetian blind folds. I take a deep breath and sink into the sofa. Exhaustion overflows every pore of my body. With some effort, I lift my head to meet three framed photographs on the coffee table in front of me.

The corners of my lips unconsciously turn upwards as I gaze into the eyes of my family. I can feel my eyes softening, my smile growing ever so slightly wider. Dad, with his encouraging eyes. Mom, with her headstrong stare. Sister, with her carefree grin. Grandma with her blinking, awkwardly frozen in time. Grandpa, with his stern, angular face.

I look to the second photograph. Two kids, both tall and unassuming, but with a kind of quiet humor dancing in their eyes. I let out a weak laugh at their neutral yet somehow peculiar faces. Their still images tell quite the amusing story.

In the third photograph, there’s only one person. A beautiful girl with warm, brown eyes, long, black hair, and a reassuring smile. My own Ántonia, on my own prairie. I smile back at her.

The few people I truly love with all my heart. Without warning, I burst into silent tears. They leave a warm trail when they slither down my cheek, and I try to alleviate the flood using my hands. When that doesn’t work, I hug my legs and cry into my knees.

Where are you?

By the time I reduce myself to sniffling, I feel somewhat better. I go upstairs, crawl into my bed, and surrender myself to the pull of sleep.

Not long after I close my puffy, red eyes, I hear a distant ringing.

It can’t be morning already.

I open my eyes and sigh. I find that I’m leaning my head back on my black office chair. The constant ringing then pervades my senses. I look around for the source, my eyes stopping at the phone. I answer, and Hotchkiss security informs me that my food delivery is here.

A couple minutes later, I stare at a pizza on my desk for a few moments. I then close my eyes, eyebrows pointed upwards in a sort of furious concentration.

But this time, I’m not thinking.

I open my eyes, grab a slice of pizza, and start eating. By myself, like I do so often.

After I finish, I wash my hands and sit back on my chair.

I recall the word I had formed on the mailbox.

Loner.