Short story I've finally finished!
It was a Tuesday. The sun had nearly set, and there were no colorful hues left in the sky. It was cold but not uncomfortably so, and therefore the window was left cracked open.
Wary hands fumbled with the filter of a cigarette that had been half-smoked from the night before. He lit it again.
He'd been meaning to quit, but he didn't fancy himself an actual smoker. He didn't smoke enough for it to be habit, and were one to ask him if he smoked, he could honestly deny it. Two cigarettes a week, maybe three. Lately, a little bit more.
Smokers often proclaimed that a cigarette during times of trouble soothed frayed nerves. If anything, he was smoking in order to get chase calmness, but he wasn’t addicted to the point where anything spectacular happened to his state of mind.
He flicked the butt of the cigarette, trailing ash into the tray, inhaled deeply, closed his eyes... pretended to be someone else.
It wasn't that he didn't like himself; there was nothing particularly wrong with him. He was kind-hearted, and he was the sort of man that others wanted to talk to. Not just out of a need to dispel sadness but more of a desire in others, a desire for them to want him to know their triumphs and tragedies. He had that effect on people. He was kind, and people needed that. There was so much in the world that was fucked up, and to have him was a bit of a reminder; he was warmth, and he was a savior within that spectrum.
It was a Tuesday. The sun had nearly set, and there were no colorful hues left in the sky. It was cold but not uncomfortably so, and therefore the window was left cracked open.
Wary hands fumbled with the filter of a cigarette that had been half-smoked from the night before. He lit it again.
He'd been meaning to quit, but he didn't fancy himself an actual smoker. He didn't smoke enough for it to be habit, and were one to ask him if he smoked, he could honestly deny it. Two cigarettes a week, maybe three. Lately, a little bit more.
Smokers often proclaimed that a cigarette during times of trouble soothed frayed nerves. If anything, he was smoking in order to get chase calmness, but he wasn’t addicted to the point where anything spectacular happened to his state of mind.
He flicked the butt of the cigarette, trailing ash into the tray, inhaled deeply, closed his eyes... pretended to be someone else.
It wasn't that he didn't like himself; there was nothing particularly wrong with him. He was kind-hearted, and he was the sort of man that others wanted to talk to. Not just out of a need to dispel sadness but more of a desire in others, a desire for them to want him to know their triumphs and tragedies. He had that effect on people. He was kind, and people needed that. There was so much in the world that was fucked up, and to have him was a bit of a reminder; he was warmth, and he was a savior within that spectrum.
No one ever thought about how the fire burned-- they only thought
of how it warmed them.
He was tired. His grandmother's voice popped into his head-- smoking will kill ya, she'd cackled. He felt like he should be guilty, even a bit sick over it. Not even two months ago and she'd died. It was hard, and thinking about it made him uneasy-- to live in a world without her, it just didn't make sense. She had smoked her entire life, had died of lung cancer. No one had been the wiser, though he suspected she knew. In the dark, he thought of it often. He wanted to curse her. She was dying, she must have known. All of the past conversations mucked around in his head, the excuses she'd given for not visiting. He'd been angry. Now he was just sick. She was dying.
When he had talked to her on the phone, she had been dying.
In the car, on his way home from work, she had been dying. He'd been talking about the fucking weather, the fucking weather, and she had been dying.
And now she was dead. She was dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.
He was tired. His grandmother's voice popped into his head-- smoking will kill ya, she'd cackled. He felt like he should be guilty, even a bit sick over it. Not even two months ago and she'd died. It was hard, and thinking about it made him uneasy-- to live in a world without her, it just didn't make sense. She had smoked her entire life, had died of lung cancer. No one had been the wiser, though he suspected she knew. In the dark, he thought of it often. He wanted to curse her. She was dying, she must have known. All of the past conversations mucked around in his head, the excuses she'd given for not visiting. He'd been angry. Now he was just sick. She was dying.
When he had talked to her on the phone, she had been dying.
In the car, on his way home from work, she had been dying. He'd been talking about the fucking weather, the fucking weather, and she had been dying.
And now she was dead. She was dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.
He'd forget sometimes, though how anyone could forget something
like that bemused him...
He would phantomly dial her number. Would hang up.
Would wonder what she was up to--
He shook his head, thinking of the ill-suited condolences. You'll see her again. She's in a better place. Bullshit. God wasn't dead, but he sure as hell wasn't real. He wished he could believe in something, some higher level of existence, a plane above himself. He couldn't, and trying on the lie made him cringe.
He would phantomly dial her number. Would hang up.
Would wonder what she was up to--
He shook his head, thinking of the ill-suited condolences. You'll see her again. She's in a better place. Bullshit. God wasn't dead, but he sure as hell wasn't real. He wished he could believe in something, some higher level of existence, a plane above himself. He couldn't, and trying on the lie made him cringe.
He didn't think he would ever see her again. He didn't believe she
was watching over him. There was nothing great or above him. She simply didn't
exist anymore. Hell, it was the same fate that awaited him someday. Tick tock,
tick, tock. he was fucked and everything was temporary. Everything was
temporary.
It wasn't that he was suicidal; if anything, he was passively so.
He wasn't going to poison himself, but if he happened to pop a few too many
pills with his wine, c'est la vie. Wasn't planning on running into traffic, but
if a car came rushing at him, wasn't planning on hauling ass either.
He wished he could escape, could be someone who believed in God
and in the afterlife and the story.
But this wasn't about eternity; or maybe it was; it was about the lack he felt. The absence. The physical ache for something fundamentally missing.
He put out his cigarette, poured a glass of gin. Took a sip. It burned.
It was his punishment. He took another sip, set it aside, in favor of some white wine. Took three rapid sips, took a pill, took another. Took another. Took one more.
But this wasn't about eternity; or maybe it was; it was about the lack he felt. The absence. The physical ache for something fundamentally missing.
He put out his cigarette, poured a glass of gin. Took a sip. It burned.
It was his punishment. He took another sip, set it aside, in favor of some white wine. Took three rapid sips, took a pill, took another. Took another. Took one more.
