Future, Remi Jokosenumi

Future

by Remi Jokosenumi

Week x of lockdown; I don’t know what month it is. I can hear the consistent stressed rhythm of the rain beating against the windowpane. I can hear the overwhelmed gurgle of the gutters rapidly filling; I can hear the rushing water descending through the pipes like a surging waterfall, and I can hear the harsh, yet endearing hush of the torrent whipping down on the steel drainage cover.

I shift around in my bedsheets and try to open my eyes. Managing only a pathetic squint, I rub my eyes and use my pinkie nails to scrape out the crusted rheum huddled cosily in the corners of my eyelids. At first, all I can see is darkness, and now the darkness is stained by irregularly shaped off-white spots, and now… my bedroom begins to materialise. I can see navy blue veins popping through my gaunt arms; I can see the grey patches of dry skin on my purlicles; I cannot see my long scraggly legs, for which I am grateful to the duvets covers for, however, where the duvet cannot reach, I can still see my oversized feet and my big toe poking out of the hole in my left sock. I look up slightly to see my bookshelf. Books from my childhood: the Gruffalo, where the wild things are and the entire collection of Winnie the Pooh, gentrify the shelves amongst “fine literature”. My eyes fixate upon a stack of unwrinkled GCSE textbooks; my eyes glaze over as I fantasize over the summer that was viciously snatched away by the bony claws of the Pandemic.

I roll over in my bedsheets a second time and glance down at my desk. A perfectly positioned ray of daylight breaks out from behind my blinds and casts a light over my grandfather’s Nordengreen classic watch. The beam of light, however, is not the golden ray filled with dancing dust mites seen at the breaking of a Mediterranean summer dawn; the light is a drained grey that gives the watch face and brown leather strap a discouraging sterile tint. I try my hardest to see the time, straining my eyes and stretching my neck, but can only catch the minute hand. It’s twenty-five past Something. I flop back onto my pillow and feel around my duvet and bed sheets for my iPhone; I grab onto my phone wire close to my hip and reel in the phone until I feel the rubbery texture of the phone case at my fingertips. I thumb the on button and squint, as I brace myself for a brief explosion of blue light; I am disappointed as the flashing image of a drained battery occupies the black screen; note to self: Instagram is for the day, sleep is for the night.

I tense my core and launch my body upwards, flicking my arms behind me to steady myself. I instantly cringe as my

right-hand lands on a mildly damp spot on my mattress. I mean… I’m pretty sure it’s sweat. It’s been rather warm over the past few days; I know from Jude’s story. He’s posted numerous pictures and videos on his Snapchat story of him and his friends in the park with the sun shining high and hard… or was that a memory? It’s been raining for hours now so it couldn’t have been that warm, but then again this is England. But was it sweat from the heat? Or have I just been lying here too long? I shake the ponderous thought out of mind and swing my legs off of the bed, and with my hands on drier parts of the mattress, push myself up. My muscles ache and my hamstrings tighten under the weight of my frail frame; it’s been some time since I’ve been vertical, but I hold my balance, nonetheless.

With a sock on my left foot and my other foot bare, I shuffle sluggishly over the blue terrazzo carpet towards the door. As I swing the door open, I am forced back like an exorcised demon, as a blast of scorching white light engulfs me. The light ripples through me pricking every tendril on my face, connecting every synapse in my nervous system, and tracking the flow of blood through every vessel in my body. It hurts, it hurts a lot, but it’s a refreshing alternative to the blue light I have become accustomed to.