Divergence

James Naumovski

Oliver 2

World Lit H

25 April 2014

Divergence

            He waited, huddled on the couch and under the blanket, even though he knew the result would once again be the same. But he hoped, maybe it wouldn’t be today. The heavy feet in unison with the creak of the stairs, and the slight pause. The scrabbling of the key in the lock, and the curses muted by the door. The boy had become used to it, yet still he hoped. No, he wouldn’t be home for another while. He looked around the room, his eyes glazing over the familiar mantelpiece – the wide TV, the dusty pictures, some overturned, left there out of laziness or hope, and the nicked shelf. The carpeted floor was likewise in poor condition – the once thick material now shabby, covered in dark stains. The coffee table was cluttered with papers, most likely with no use.

He was hungry, so he walked across the room to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator to a familiar sight. The beers dominated the top shelf, and more were loaded on the door. However, there was no real food. He opened the cabinets, found a box of cereal, and ate some dry. His stomach still growled when he returned to the couch.

The creak of the stairs and the heavy steps shattered the silence. How much time had passed since he had gone to look for food? Then came the scrabbling on the lock, the muffled curses. The door creaked open, and a man lurched in, unable to keep a steady pace. “Hi Dad” the boy said, innocent as ever, but once again the smell hit him. Even though it was a regular occurence, the boy could never become used to it. The acrid smell moved with the man, emanating from his body. He still hadn’t said anything to the boy, not even gone as far as to look at him.

The man dragged himself to the couch, and plopped down on the end. “Get me a drink,” he slurred, but the boy knew what he was supposed to do. The boy walked solemnly to the kitchen, retrieved a beer, and returned to the couch. The man took it without a word, and searched on the coffee table for the TV remote. His hand reached out and grabbed, and his index finger mashed down on the button. The TV flickered to life, illuminating the entirety of the room. The man flicked through the various news channels, not stopping long enough to pick anything. He stopped on a commercial, swore, and stabbed at the remote, but it ceased to respond. He threw tried throwing it on the coffee table, missed, and it landed on the floor.

The boy shook off the ragged blanket, and retrieved the controller. “Why did I bother to wait,” he thought. Once again, it was the same – cold, unnerving silence between the two. He decided to break it. “Dad, I’m worried about school.”

The man told him not to be, it doesn’t matter, any excuse to stifle the conversation.

The boy was unsure. He questioned, “But won’t school, I guess, help me later in life?”

“I said, it doesn’t matter,” with a specific finality of the conversation. The man went back to his beer, and to ignoring the boy.

“I’m still confused though. Won’t I need it later in life? Can you help me? How can I learn better?” The questions flowed from the boy.

The man yelled at the boy for not shutting up, questioning why he even allowed the boy to talk, and once again, went back to ignoring the boy.

The boy looked down with a mix of sadness and annoyance. “Why was I yelled at? I just have questions.” He thought of crying, but he did not cry anymore, at least in front of Dad. Dad didn’t like crying. “Why me?” But he didn’t know why. He only felt lost, inside his own home, with his only family. He no longer knew why he wanted to know about school, and he should have seen his dad’s answer coming. It was always the same on similar matters. Except in the morning. The mornings were worse.

His dad wouldn’t wake up sometimes. He would just leave the boy to fend for himself, take the bus to school. On the mornings he would wake up, there was usually only silence. He would just completely ignore the boy. Sometimes, there were stares. Vicious frowns etched on his face. Sometimes he would yell about seemingly nothing in particular. Other times he would just push the boy out of the way.

“Dad, did you get more food? I looked in the fridge, but there wasn’t anything.”

He responded with a curt no. Go to bed.

The boy did as commanded, but couldn’t help but question. “Does Dad really know what’s best? How come he can just tell me to?” He crossed the tight living room to the even smaller bathroom, and brushed his teeth with the frayed brush. “Is this really where I feel safe? Comfortable?” He stared into the mirror, but just a boy, shrunken and gray, stared back. He glided to his room, and climbed under his thin blankets. Once again, defeated, overwhelmed.

The boy buried his face in the pillow to muffle his sobs.

*   *   *   *   *

Reflection

This flash fiction was very interesting for me to write, as there were very few restrictions for it. Although my story is not autobiographical, I chose to write it because I felt that I am capable of writing on such a topic, and that it truly emphasized many of the values that were depicted in One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. Specifically, while writing my story, I aimed to include aspects of identity and power, but during the writing process and peer feedback, I saw the possibility for obedience and hope.

Identity was very interesting, and the excerpts on how the work camp becomes each gang member’s new home were particularly important to me. But, I portrayed my characters differently. In the work camp, the members become accustom to their home, and thus submit to the harsh life. However, the boy in my story constantly questions his home, and how it shapes his identity. Further, he does not accept it as a home, which leads to the conclusion of the story. My interest in identity does not stop there. For my story, I did not include names to show the loss of identity. The boy is just there – not comfortable with his alcoholic father, and clearly is not in a hospitable environment.

This is intertwined with the boy’s obedience. Again, I differ from Solzhenitsyn’s view: instead of each character becoming more submissive to his oppressor as he become used to his life, the boy does not. He reflects upon life, which is constantly contingent on his feelings. Ultimately, he is split between his father-son bond, and his helpless demeanor caused by his father’s neglect. However, the boy is overall more hopeful compared to the characters in the book, as they accept their fate, versus the boy, who contemplates a better life, or his father changing his habits. Lastly, the father represents the abuse of power. He is able to control the boy, yet he constantly commands the child, silencing him at every turn.

I named the short story “Divergence” because of the conflicting ideals that create the majority of internal tension. Constantly, the boy is split between his own values and ideals, such as obedience and identity. However, this exists also on an interpersonal level between the boy and the father on ideals such as obedience. The dad expects the boy to obey his every command, yet the boy continually questions his father’s authority.

Overall, “Divergence” represents many of the values in One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, but some aspects are portrayed differently.