Your Overton Window

Douglas sits at his Overton window, gazing out at the teal sky beyond the silhouetted opposing flats but distracted by thoughts from inside his skull: boredom, ennui. The setting sun sends a green streak behind the black clouds that train over the horizon. He can see others staring into their Overton windows, but he know most of them have it on transmission mode and are watching a multitude of exotic violence rather than the remnants of violence found in this urban tableau. For Douglas there is something compelling about this actual violence, the scar tissue of a dying world; and in these vagrant hours, empty hours between work and sleep, he can barely do much else, barely muster the will to begin what he will have to put down almost instantly as the grip of fatigue takes hold.

Besides, his T.V. mode only makes him feel tense anyway. It constantly tells him that there are other groups of people, and all of these groups are a threat to his kind and the way his kind wants to be. He is told about how his kind wants to be, but he doesn't remember being consulted about it; and, anyway, why would his opinion count?

These other groups, he is told, are a threat, a danger, because of the crazy ideology they have that denies them a world like ours; or they have a natural penchant for crime and violence, and they want to hurt our kind. However, sitting here, looking out his window, he sees many of the Others, London being the place it is, and he can see, with his own eyes, these other groups are not much different to him, or the person next door to them. They all stare blankly into mass medium broadcasts, needing them, wanting them. In a way, yes, they are all the same, but somehow, they are all a threat too; a threat to him, to themselves, to each other.

It is Friday evening and the night is entirely his, but Douglas is far too tired to take up any recreational pastime or venture out of his flat. In a few moments he will be asleep. He can barely keep awake now.

Saturday morning raises a red sun anchored over a jaundiced sky. The severity of the heat on his face wakes Douglas from his dehydrated stupor. The day is his own, and in this scatola room, with his Overton sternly presiding over him, he makes preparations to leave, choosing to suffer the outdoors instead.

Walking the asphalt avenues that surround his home, Douglas is treated to a panorama of tower block windows, huge buildings encroaching upon each other, dark and shadowy. The early-risers amongst them are busy tending to their Overton window frames: adding an extra layer of protective varnish, re-painting them, filling holes and sanding them smooth. They will spend their entire free day making sure their Overton looks as good as their neighbour's, if not better. The toxic fumes of fillers and solvents stumble down to street level, mingling with the normal airborne pollutants and enthusing Douglas's head and lungs with an industrial chemistry. He wheezes as he takes heavy breaths, his brain gently seguing into a dull throb out if its usual, perpetual numbness.

Douglas doesn't mind the fumes – at least, he is used to breathing them – but he unconsciously walks to escape them, heading to the smarter parts of town where the air is less heavy. He does not know what attracts him to the smarter areas. Their mildly wider expanses of openness do not harbour the quiet comfort of his cramped neighbourhood. He feels exposed in the smarter parts, self conscious, and unwanted – but then again, he feels unwanted just about everywhere he goes.

Sitting on a bench outside the metal railings of a private park, Douglas passively studies some old, handsome-looking buildings. He doesn't like these buildings per se, but he is intrigued by the ornamentation and design that is not like the brutal buildings of his neighbourhood. He occasionally comes here to look at them. As his eyes trace the contours of the opposing edifices, he becomes aware suddenly of a complete lack of Overton windows. Sure, these people will have Overtons somewhere in their homes, but they do not have them on every window like on the building at home. This quiet revelation stirs a persuasive notion: Overtons are not obligatory. What has been familiar and normal his entire life he now realises is entirely optional.

Stumbling back with his weekly shopping, Douglas watches his Overton as he crosses the room. As always, the presence of the Overton is intense and compelling, almost like it is an entity itself, an unwelcome guest expecting to be entertained, watching you as your figure out how to get them to leave. Approaching his window, his vista widens to a scene of hundreds of citizens carefully tending to their window frames. Douglas has never cared for his Overton and on close inspection he sees the paint is flaking in large, rigid strips that crack off cleanly, dry and brittle, revealing the unfinished frame beneath. He pokes at the structure, studies how the frame is made. The Overton window is made only of paper, the cheapest, flimsiest kind, made from wood pulp strengthened with glue; and his frame having been neglected for so long, Douglas is able to tear chunks from the frame, and see exactly how insubstantial it really is.  Crumbling a piece of frame in his hands, he realises how vulnerable it makes him. Anyone could break into his room at any time. The Overton window won't protect him. It never has.

This final straw compels him to replace his Overton. Having few savings, he decides to do a little D.I.Y. but first he must find out how one makes and fits a window frame. Ironically, it is the Overton window that is the portal to the massive world wide database that harbours such knowledge (as well as non-knowledge). After planning his frame, he spends the following weekends scrounging for useful pieces of wood. Over several weeks he makes a new window frame and when complete, takes his tools to his Overton to demolish it.

It is the frame that contains all the circuitry and gadgetry that makes the Overton work, so the glass can be re-used for his new window. Fixing the glass into the new frame, he fixes the frame into the vacant hole and secures it in place. Once in place, he applies paint to the frame, and for the first time, joins all the other citizens in their ritualistic home maintenance. As he works, he sees the faces of his neighbours stop their work and stare at him with confused looks. Douglas feels proud; he'll be the talk of the neighbourhood.

The morning drags with it an ambience of intense heat and colour. Douglas wakes to see the red sun blaze through his entirely new, entirely self-made window. For the first time in his adult life, Douglas feels liberated, feeling a newfound sense of achievement. He dresses and skips down the stairs for his usual Sunday walk.

The towering blank facades loom over him, shadowy, dark, imposing. He looks proudly to his window, a beacon of individual assertion. He can see it clearly amongst the green-tinged Overtons, an oddity against the surrounding conformity, and even in the dinginess of these dismal open-air corridors, his heart skips with pleasure. His mind turned internally, he does not straight away notice the abnormality of his neighbourhood; but as his brain becomes accustomed to the blissful quiet, and the sublime glow of the sun against thousands of unmoving Overtons, the alarming nature of these vistas dwells on him.

No one is tending to their Overton. The reality of this impossibility renders a trauma inside that presses on his chest. Looking about him, he sees that no one else is around, and the dawning fear threatens to paralyse him in these dirty streets.

He quickens his pace and continues his walk, telling himself nothing is wrong, but when he arrives at the end of the block, he finds a gang of neighbours staring at him, barring his way. Their aggressive stares send an immediate message to turn back. He does so, but finds another gang of neighbours approaching from the other end of the road. He runs for it and escapes down a side alley, the howls and cries of his furious fellow citizens spinning after him.

He makes it back to his block of flats and races up to his floor. He shuts himself in his room. All is quiet behind his walls and every small scraping noise or bump strikes within him a profound terror. Suddenly the murmur of thousands of people fades into earshot, becoming louder as the people approach from all sides. Even concealed from view outside his room, Douglas can hear the rage simmering amongst them.

A bang on his door makes him leap in fright. More bangings and kickings come. Terrified, Douglas edges to his window. Peering out, he sees a crowd of people at street level, eyes all turned up to him. Missiles come instantly, slamming into the glass, and a brick is hurled, smashing the window and showering Douglas with razor needles. The voices are deafening now, the beating at his door vicious and intense. There is nothing he can so. A lighted petrol bomb slams into his chest, engulfing him and his room with flames. He screams in agony as his flesh is torn by extreme heat. His room goes up in an instant, lit up in flames, billowing thick smoke.

His last moments are moments of fear and intense pain. Due to fire regulations, the room contains the fire. It burns quickly and burns out in an hour or so. What is left of Douglas and his room is a ragged landscape of blackened ash. His window is no more, gone, just a sooty orifice gaping on the side of an otherwise flawless collection of immaculate, well kept, identical Overton windows.