NOVEL WORKSHOP
A Good Boy
“You do your best. You do what you can, what you should. You’re doing the right thing. It is good. You’re a good boy.“
This is chapter 11 of a new novel. To see all published chapters, go here.
He continued to climb, stepped up, the fastest he could. Blood taste in the mouth. He heard again what she had said, the words that had been between them — like sharp arrows, like ammunition that was shot out to hurt — all this he did not benefit from thinking about, actually.
He felt his heart pounding in his chest. He climbed on, almost blind. He was angry. No, he was sad, hurt when he thought of her. The words she had thrown at him. The usual accusations that he did not stand up for her.
The path is less visible now. He has to climb a steep mountain slope where he clings to some pine bushes to secure himself from slipping down.
The mountain gets steeper, the resistance increases, he has to concentrate all he can on where he sets foot. It is very steep, suddenly he feels like he is stepping on a loose rock. He stumbles, almost falls. A few rocks and gravel move under his feet. He stops and holds his breath. Hears pebbles jumping down the mountainside. A few meters higher up, several smaller stones loosen and some gravel flows down as if it were water. He jerks, hesitates, feels insecure. Decides to go back down to the car.
He turns. Goes gently down again. He thinks of Sisyphus, the legendary figure in Greek mythology, who uses the trip back down from the mountain top for reflection, to think through what he is doing.
He stopped and looked down. It seemed steeper now, when he stood there on the edge of the cliff. It was a long way to go before he was down by the car again.
He went carefully down the steep slope. He felt both happy and sad. He struggled to put words into his mind on this mixture of good and less good.
He felt both happy and sad. He struggled to put words into his mind on this mixture of good and less good. He had every reason to feel happy now. This trip up to the top, the good body feeling, the feeling of being able to use the body.
He just had to come down safely again. And then he would drive on, at random for several hours. From time to time he would make a stop. Get out of the car again, walk a little to start the circulation in the legs and in the system.
He started walking down again. Stepped more carefully now. He thought of her. What is altruism? To give of oneself, blindly? What is man? Is man mostly emotions, or is he also an intellect? What is important — is it the lies, or is it the truth?
Everyone knows what the negative is. — Everyone knows that the truth is what we must stand for and fight for.
But do we always do that? Or is it that we sometimes compromise with the truth, that we deceive others, that we also deceive ourselves because it is most convenient, because we think we have the most interest in it? Is there a built-in mechanism in man that says that this is morally correct, while this other thing is morally reprehensible?
What then, when someone commits horrific acts? What if someone commits horrible acts, with ill-fated grounds for the actions inside them? What is hatred?
What happens on TV? What kind of needs does television fill? Are there such simple, primitive needs? Is there a need to appear different from who you are? What is happening to humans?
Why do we do things we know are not right — is it because we benefit from them? Or because we believe that we must also do such things.
And when it comes to conscience — what is so important? What is so important that we cannot talk about it? Where is the meaning in such?
What is the difference between us and an animal that follows its instincts, its desires, a living being that above all seeks to satisfy its desires?
He felt the disappointment again. He resisted, wanted to fight against such unpleasant thoughts, such impulses that drive us, self-interest as the driving force that underlies everything else.
He felt a tight pull around his mouth. He thought about it. He thought about himself.
— Was he also one like that, one who was like everyone else, in a situation similar to the one that is common to the man in the street.
For many years now there had been bad conditions in society. It was an ugly struggle. He had lost his job at least as many times as many of those who struggled in the other houses. There were several others in the street who also struggled to make things fit together. To make life cohesive. It’s about income, and about costs.
What kind of society is this? Everyone fighting against everyone else. All against all? How can this make sense? What is the common definition of a society? Isn’t it that people live together in society, collaborating, finding together, helping each other, finding ways to cope with what is always a challenge: How to make ends meet?
Some tried to sell their house. It was difficult. Signs with For sale came up. Several traveled. Got off guard and got into the car and drove away. They were out of what had been their life.
What had his life been like before this? He had then had a life. A normal life with her. What was a normal life? And what had happened next? What had changed everything?
He knew what had happened next. But what could have happened if she and he had managed to take care of what they had together? That’s the big question. Yes, well, and then, what they had together.
He knew the answer was hidden somewhere. She was close, she came towards him and smiled and he felt bright sunshine inside, he felt rich, adventurously happy and he felt that he wanted her.
She came to him and gave herself to him and he met her and gave herself to her. And like that life had been. Long. For several years they had lived a new life together.
They had everything they needed, everything they should have. But then it started to go awry. What happened? What is man more than his own satisfaction? What is man more than the ego, one that cultivates itself?
For some reason he thought of his mother. She was long gone now, but throughout her life, she had been there all his life, had been there for him. When he thought back to her, he knew that they had never talked much, he and she. She was a woman with few words, and he himself also spoke few words. It was a weakness — he was fully aware of it.
She had always been there for him. She had been the one he could turn to, the one who would always be there.
She was the one who could say:
“It’s good Eric. You do your best. You do what you can, what you should. You’re doing the right thing. It is good. You’re a good boy.“
This is a live novel writing project.
Novel fragments will appear here, as the fiction progresses. For the latest follow me here: https://oivind47.medium.com/
Novel in progress. Comments and feedback ([email protected]) are welcomed.
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