Touch Grass
A short-fiction on screen addiction and nature therapy
He is lying on his back, his posture defying his backbone. His left arm is tucked under his back, and he is clutching his new phone with his right, keeping it suspended mid-air. The screen is tilted downwards and he cranes his neck unnaturally to keep his eyes at level with it. His legs are askew, propped against the wall. The back of his head is rested on a jumble of sheets. There is a pillow on his belly, and two others on the floor.
“Hey,” I say to him.
There is no acknowledgement.
“Hey,” I repeat louder.
He nods imperceptibly. The room is darkened. A shadow of the bright daylight outside filters through the drawn curtains and is all the light in the room. His phone screen casts a sickly, multi-colored glow that dances on his face and changes hue every time he swipes his thumb.
“Hey,” I repeat a third time.
“Hey,” he answers. His voice is cracked and underdeveloped. He is eighteen but his voice-box hasn’t had nearly enough practice to reach its full potential.
“Let’s go outside,” I suggest.
He shakes his head and continues to bore into his phone. A passing smile softens his face. It is gone just as lightly and stealthily as it came.
“We’re going outside,” I say.
“You go,” even when he replies he barely acknowledges my presence. His eyes are transfixed in the same direction. They’re like stone eyes, looking but not seeing.
“We’re going outside,” I state. I am not firm, not ordering, not forceful, I am simply stating a fact.
“I am not going,” there is a hint of annoyance in his voice, the only emotion other than apathy.
“C’mon, we’re going outside,” I grab him by the shoulders and pull him up; but I don’t reach for his phone, that never works.
There is none of that initial rebellion. He’s gotten used to the routine, but more importantly, deny it as he will, he wants to give in.
The sudden movement startles him. He sits up and is momentarily stunned. The phone is still in his hands, but he has switched the screen off. The sickly, multi-colored glow is gone. The dimness in the room is more whole now, a resting dimness rather than a wasting dimness.
He places the phone on the bed sheets and looks at me for the first time.
“Hey,” he says.
“C’mon.”
I want to tell him to wash his face but decide it’s too risky. He does it himself; taking handfuls of water and splashing it on his eyes and face. The water cleans the grime and dirt but does nothing to otherwise soothe his face. He runs wet fingers through his overgrown, tousled hair and decides to brush as well.
I take out both our sandals as he freshens up, giving him no time to reconsider or refuse.
It is only a short distance to the park. He walks by my side, head down, hands deep in his trouser pockets. He exits the trance in increments. He lifts his head, slowly, a-degree-a-minute, and glances around, surveying the sky, the sidewalks, the neon-signs of the shops. I can see that he is in a good mood. He stretches his arms and neck, and even tries to hum a tune, then stops.
At the park we find an empty spot and sit on the grass. The silence between us persists but is not unfriendly. He pokes his ears a couple of times. He has his phone with his but does not take it out.
We are both sitting with our knees drawn up to their chests. The aroma of the grass is sweet. It must be even sweeter to him after the stuffiness of his room. The grass is green and wild. Small flowers and twigs poke out amongst the blades. Polka-dotted beetles and ugly, flying insects saunter about.
In front of us, there are trees. Tall trees with coarse, peeling bark and short trees with smooth skin and thick shades. Branches crisscross the expanse of light blue sky. Some are clothed in lush foliage, dark green with shadows and alive with the perching of birds and bats; while others are slender, lithe, and covered sparsely with explosions of lively, young leaves. Some are flowering, some have fruits handing high above reach.
He sits with his chin resting on his knees. The smile is back on his lips; it’s more real this time, has more substance. Eventually, as the happy thought completes itself in his head, he looks up and rests his eyes on the green.
I look away from him and stare into the middle distance. There are birds about. I can hear them chirp. Some fly down and hop on the ground before us. I don’t know what they are looking for, but they look cheerful.
We stay locked in that position for a long time, awash in the simple beauty of nature. Me, staring and not looking at anything; him, looking with all his might and regenerating.
I can feel him relaxing, especially his eyes. They are like boiling pots that have been taken off the fire and put on a cold cloth. They sizzle as they cool. Can he now see what I see?
We leave when it feels appropriate for us to do so. On the way back, we click a couple of pictures of us hugging tree trunks. We use his phone; its camera is far superior.
At home, I make his bed while he is in the washroom. I have a work zoom-meeting soon so I boot up my PC and make myself a snack. I am about to ask whether he wants a sandwich too, but he is lying on his bed, cuddled up to a pillow and asleep.
His phone is on the table away from the bed. It looks like a healing sleep.
