Dan's Conundrum - 25. Epilogue

By half past twelve on that ordinary day in June, a young boy had finished typing his first novel, bringing his months-long project to a close.

The deed was done.

How many breaks and lunches had it been since he sat here in this library on this very same chair in this very same awkward position in front of this same computer, and typed down the first sentence? It seemed years ago, however silly it sounded, that he announced his sexuality to a computer and confided in it the many secrets he thought he could never tell. It also seemed like years ago, when he first conjured up his own world and the friends he could have, the boy he could love. When he typed the last word, he knew it was all but over. The characters, his imaginary friends, would cease to be real. They would become dreams, a good dream that existed in the back of his mind while reality and life must move on.

Not quite wanting to part with the characters with whom he had learned to love, he wondered if he printed the entire document now (and giving his friends a tangible existence in the physical world) the librarian would shout at him. Who was going to pay for all these papers? Your parents? He was always like that, the old librarian. Embittered by the insolence from pupils stealing his digestive biscuits day after day, he would not tolerate mass-printing to satisfy a boy’s personal desires. Or maybe he was just an eco-friendly sort – paper is valuable after all, if it was one of the few things that could capture dreams and make them real. Perhaps he would put this on the internet instead. Gay Authors seemed a good place to start.

Now, with nothing more to do, the boy was stumped. At least for a few seconds. Today he had gained and lost so much. He remembered his grandparents, long-dead before he could say goodbye but he saw them briefly again in that world. He remembered his childhood friends whom he never found the courage to call. Now they were leaving him again. They could not be brought back.

To the side, he found several pupils pointing and giggling at diagrams in a Biology textbook and the librarian was on his way to send them out. Weren’t they laughing at the same diagram just a few weeks ago? Why were they here again?

He was about to find a chess opponent online when he heard a familiar voice, a voice he thought he would forget, say inside his head,

If I can go to my first party, I can do anything.

The boy peered out of the window and smiled. Without warning, he logged off the computer, packed his bag and got to his feet. It was still half an hour before the end of lunch. He could visit the canteen and see if they had any more of those rice puddings left, but the canteen was not where his heart was telling him to go.

I’m living my life for once, you know?

Before leaving, the young boy turned and regarded once more the library, his home, his refuge. As he imagined the possibilities of heading out that door, leaving for the unknown, he searched his soul and found hope for himself, the path to happiness that was laid before him by his own novel, and the life he could live, the memories he could have. More optimistic than ever, he bounced out of the library and went outside, to the fields, where he felt he could relive his happy self in his own writing.

The heat was unforgiving, but he felt happier already despite an ocean of pupils in the courtyard, none of which he felt comfortable talking to, nor did anyone here seem interested in speaking to him. He had no one; that hadn’t changed either. The initial bravado left him, dissipated into thin air. He was tempted to slip back inside and not be seen hanging out by himself. It was a humiliation, and being alone invite troubles of all sorts. He knew for sure. Perhaps he should return to the library and finish The Selfish Gene. Perhaps he should work on a new novel, with a new set of characters.

But he also knew that wouldn’t solve anything. It wouldn’t take away the fact that he had no one.

How did he solve this particular conundrum in his novel? It must have been one of the earlier chapters, for they made the rest possible. He thought of all the friends he had spent months writing about, the friends he never had. What were his first steps of that incredible journey? How did it begin?

Then he remembered. He smiled, greeting the memory like an old friend. The answer had been there all along, standing under that tree behind the tennis courts on the far side of the field.

Perhaps, after so many months wishing and dreaming in the library, he will go there and speak to this David after all.