ArtsAutosBooksBusinessEducationEntertainmentFamilyFashionFoodGamesGenderHealthHolidaysHomeHubPagesPersonal FinancePetsPoliticsReligionSportsTechnologyTravel
  • »
  • Books, Literature, and Writing»
  • Books & Novels

Six: Chapter One, Part 1

Updated on January 15, 2017
Everett Bradley profile image

Everett Bradley, convincingly or not, doesn't do much else other than write and read.

As it were, no one knew why she left to be gone. Explaining my explaining of her disappearance as a means to simply disappear. This reason, while possible, was unlikely as no one found a lack of nuance within her spirit. There was always a sort of logic that couldn’t be pinpointed in consistency or reason, but always brought you to the conclusion that there was a bigger reason for her absences other than loneliness for its own sake. That’s something a normal person would do. And to think she is normal is to forfeit any belief that one can be special, as she is the only one anyone had ever given the benefit of the doubt towards in terms of significance and belonging. This provided her with an aura of comforting social skills within one’s mind. No matter the actual content of the words she spoke, it was more likely than not that they had a deeper meaning behind them. A second story that only one whom truly deserved her grace (of which was also assumed to be true by the spectators of her actions) could possibly comprehend. This made her the ultimate being to be, to have, to be with. If you weren’t accepted by her in the moments you attempted to show your respect then you were alone. No one was accepted by her, in their own minds.
Everyone was alone together.

When I walk across this log, I can see the river. This log crosses over the river. It is just an accident that this log happened to create a bridge between one side of the river to the other. However there is still significance within the log. It allows me to cross the river. It is a home for amphibious life and plants that grasp on its bark, now dead. It has significance. But no purpose, for it was just an accident that the log created a bridge between one side of the river to the other.

Now that I have reached the end of the log, I realize that it is more significant than I. While it is a home, bridge, and necessary source for life, I simply exist to make that distinction. I provide no life, I simply kill. I provide no home, I simply sleep. I am no bridge for any river that may need crossing. While other animals may have crossed this dead tree and trotted on in search of necessities, I’ve stood here for a lengthy amount of time simply defining the significance, not purpose, of this logs existence. What is this cruel irony life has played on me? The more advanced I become, the more useless I am. I wish to be a home. I wish to provide life. I wish to be a bridge…a log. I wish for many things. The boy running towards me, interrupting my thoughts is not one.


His blank eyes and plastic smile makes me angry. What was the purpose for his greeting? I don’t know him better than a person whom I have seen as a passerby. No emotional attachment let alone ever talking to each other. It had been some time now between his initial word. I would have hoped he’d observed that I had no desire to talk to him as a friend and that he required quite a bit of hefty news to make me interested in continuing the conversation.

“I’m Andro.”

It seems, sadly, he hasn’t picked up on my lack of interest to speak with him. Well what position does this put me in? I can’t deny him the conversation as, frankly; he hasn’t really done anything that I can justify in calling annoying. So I must say something back. But if he hasn’t done anything to bother me, then why do I hate him already? Is it a preconceived notion that everyone who interrupts my train of thought isn’t worth talking to? Perhaps I should put this idea behind me, if it exists. I can’t pinpoint it, but this accusing energy feels both very real and completely fictitious. Well it’s been almost ten seconds now and I haven’t said anything. Better swallow your pride and…

“I’m Six…”

Saying my own name never hurt my dignity so much. Dignity? What was I giving into? What was I giving up? My own loneliness? How is that stabbing at my own personal respect? If anything I should be applauding myself for trying to entertain this person. It can be my way of saying ‘thanks for taking me out of the natural beauty that is this ecosystem so that you could say hello to me’. But…. I just can’t get passed that fake smile…. his lips have been moving this entire time. I should pay attention now.

“…it’s not like I don’t enjoy it either, but I would think you’d like to spend SOME time with others. Don’t you feel alone?”

Have you ever noticed that when you aren’t paying attention to someone when they are speaking you end up getting just enough information required to answer them as if you had been listening the whole time?

“It’s peaceful out here. I enjoy napping.”

I suppose it was too early in our relationship to go on about the log’s more meaningful significance in this world.

“I hate sleeping mid-day. I feel terrible when I wake up…”

And now comes the part in a conversation that everyone dreads: making a new topic. He’s just staring at me now… I didn’t want this. Why is he here? Why is he making me uncomfortable? Why is it my job to create a conversation of substance? I fucking hate this kid. I should tell him to go away now. I should, very much in emotion, attack him for invading my space. I should… respond.

“Why are you here?”

I admit it wasn’t as militant of an interrogation as I would have left myself to believe, but there you go.

“Walk with me?”


I’ve no truth to my own ego. “Sure”. How pathetic. This boy isn’t going to magically get more interesting if I walk with him. Why do I do this to myself? Not that this happens often, but I feel like it translates into many situations that I cannot name. I have an idea of myself that I like. And that Idea acts, says, and is what I like. But that Idea cannot be farther from the truth. My ego would have me deny this boy any attention and continue giving the ever important log the thought it needs. But instead I fail that idea and become an averaged out Six who walks with this nuisance.

We’ve been walking with little conversation when we reached the local market. Huts, set up with an active community of about 1000 walking around it, was enough to ease the tension that had no reason to be there.


We turn to see who I assumed was Andro’s mother racing toward us. She began to walk as she realized I was a part of the group of which was previously believed to only have one. Her eyes laid upon me until she realized I was staring back at her, at which point she quickly blinked her eyes back and forth between both Andro and I. I could tell she was thinking of something to say. How should she react? Like a normal person with inquiries that would make everyone apart of the question feel like a human? No, that would be too… easy?

“Who is this?”

Her voice is upbeat, high, and had a fake smile right behind. Similar to Andro in that way.

“This is my friend.”

Andro answered somewhat nervously. It’s not that his voice was shaky, but you could definitely tell that, from his body language, he had some problem with this woman being here at this point in time. He wasn’t the only one.

“I’m Six”

I said it indifferently, but I also had a sense of interest in how she would put her attitude towards me. I’d love to have an indifferent response back. It shows no hate. No love. Nothing is assumed. What a world it would be if everyone thought like me.

“Oh what a lovely name!”

I hope you die you lying whore.

She looks over to Andro and says what everyone knows she is going to say:
“I hate to ruin your little party, but we have to get home. I’ve been looking for you for a while now…”

I take it back. I had no clue… Party?

Andro looks at me and nods. He seems to be hiding his disappointment well. I wonder if he notices that I’m hiding my relief well... am I?

Before he leaves I just catch him.

“It’s been nice seeing you, Andrew.”

He smiles and repeats the farewell back.

“It’s been nice seeing you, Sarah.”

As he walks out of the room, I turn around to see the rest of the people whom I do not know one bit. Nerves get the better of me as I realize the failure I have become to myself. Is it possible the others can see it in me? My disappointment?


    0 of 8192 characters used
    Post Comment

    No comments yet.