Title: No Title

(Once upon a time, there was a fairytale….)

What’s the point to everything?

This is what repeats and repeats, swirls around and around and around again over and over in a never-ending spiral of self-hatred and self-pity in the deep pits of his mind at three in the morning.

His face is blank, like all of his notebooks, canvases, documents, and ideas lately. Posts of people’s anger, hatred, sadness, disappointment, joy, and most recent emotional turmoil flashes as he scrolls down the screen in boredom.

Does he even matter?

This is what plagues him.

In this day and age, a time full of historical triumphs, revolutionary ways towards new cultural standards, rising conflicts on acceptance and equality and freedom, does he really matter?

He looks at all the important people who are finding themselves, and he thinks of how little he knows about himself. He thinks of all the lies and all the excuses he has spouted, and all for what? Why should it matter what he is like to all the people who aren’t there for him?

There, on the screen, he scrolls past yet another widely-liked post about that transgender guy who finally had a breakthrough with his parents. Then another who’s dyed their hair again.

There’s that girl who’s angry once more, and has passionately spread it to the public. There is the trending post of support towards the raped celebrity. There are six more posts about feminism. There are three more about the political elections. (….They all had roles except for the fool….)

All these people who know their opinions, know who they are, who they  want to be, what they feel, and how they want to speak, and he’s here, apathetically scraping by day by day. Does he matter anymore?

(Did he ever matter?)

He doesn’t like to be called lazy, but calling himself depressed is so strange that he can’t bring himself to use it. He doesn’t know whether calling himself messed up, sick, or struggling is an excuse for his uselessness, or if it is a legitimate reason, and he’s just stopping himself from actually getting “cured”.

He also doesn’t like how he is supposed to be fixed if he is. He’s not broken, he’s just not seemingly normal either. (Is what, thought? Does he even know for sure? What is he?)

He doesn’t know if he’s really asexual, or if he’s just finding terms to label himself with so he can be more unique. He doesn’t know if it’s normal for him to want to be more feminine some days, more masculine the next, yet never fully want to actually be the opposite gender. He doesn’t know if he really can’t sleep, or if he’s just constantly forcing himself to stay awake without knowing. He doesn’t know who he is, what he is, or why he is like this or that, nor does he know who or what he wants to be.

There are a million questions constantly plaguing him every night and every morning.

Is he actually the loud, outgoing person people complain he is, or is he really the antisocial recluse he likes to call himself? Is he really straight? Is he really not straight? Is he narcissistic like those people say he is, or is he the self-depreciating guy the other people say he is?

Then there are the questions and the pressure from those others.

Should he try to be quieter? Should he try to be less morbid? Is he bothering that sort-of friend with his messages? Should he apologize for being upset at that friend weeks ago? They haven’t messaged him in a month. Are they no longer friends?

He no longer has an identity to clutch.

The low battery symbol flashes in the bottom right corner of his screen, right next to the clock, which reads four in the morning.

He sighs, and shifts a bit in his seat, before considering going out of his room to take a shower. He probably won’t get up until hours later, but the consideration is worth a thought or two.

He sighs, and trudges on through his murky thoughts as the world keeps evolving around him. He supposes that at least his inconsistency is a constant. (And so the nameless fool carries on without a title to his pointless circling story….)

Does he even matter, whoever he is now?

Somewhere Somehow

“Brad Ataman died peacefully at age eighty-seven after an unfortunate accident.”

“…sickening.”

“Coralline Whitman died peacefully at age twenty-two after an unfortunate accident.”

“…sickening.”

“Levi Sestinas died peacefully at age twelve after an unfortunate accident.”

“…sickening.”

The damp newspaper fell onto the ashy coffee table with an echoing smack as the girl, no, woman, no, lady, heaved a heavy breath and tipped backwards to rest her head against the back of the couch.

Outside the sky was a dull blank color, and the few humans visible from the fourth story balcony were hustling around clutching their expensive leather trench-coats to chest, running indoors to where there was heat, warmth, and shelter from the biting wind. There was no heat in this apartment complex.

The lady stretched lethargically and raised an icy hand to her forehead in an effort to massage the throbbing headache away. The creaky, lagging laptop, covered in peeling logos, sat blinking dutifully behind her on the kitchen table, long since drained of battery. Yet another frosty breeze swept through the empty apartment, taking with it any remaining bits of air freshener, the smell of tasteless dollar store tea, or the last drips of steam in the only bathroom from any quick morning showers. Her fingers were frozen beyond the point of agile maneuverability, but the lady didn’t bother, never bothered, closing the windows, no matter how cold. It was just how things were.

Somewhere, a child screamed in fright. Elsewhere, a slap echoed. She didn’t care about the correlation.

The clock in the lobby struck three, and the lady gave a low growl, clambering up unsteadily and shuffling out of the apartment. She grabbed a ratty old pair of fingerless gloves she had long forgotten the color of on the way out, as well as a stack of once-warm-from-the-printer papers. (Somehow, her mind still whispered to her, “The dead. The dead,” but she ignored it.)

Somewhere, a paint-chipped door slammed shut. Elsewhere, old wood groaned at the empty pressure it withheld everyday of its lonely, tiresome, cold existence. She didn’t care about the causation.

The elevator was late as usual, with no music on the ride up to the sixth floor. She shifted from foot to foot as she messed with the heavy pile of papers and mentally prepared herself for the daily jobs.

First would be Miss Aidafield in complex 603. She was an old woman with wispy strands of grey hair, rickety knees, and an immense love for collecting junk. She never answered the door, just crooned out “The door’s open, Evelyn dear!” and continued watching her TV while petting one of her cats in the middle of her room full of collected junk. She would never go inside though. She just left the paper right inside the doorway.

Next door would be Katy, the college student who never slept when the sun wasn’t out. She never opened the door either, so she just left the papers outside. The smell of black coffee, cheap pizza, and staleness from a lack of flowing air would always hang in a heavy cloud around this complex.

Then would be the home of the two boys, Rick and Allen, whose complex always had the sound of violent video games leaking out from behind the door. In 606 was Mr. Steins the uptight engineer, 607 was the snobby Lady Whitman, and 608 was a loud family of four who were constantly angry at each other.

The elevator dinged happily at its own arrival, and she stepped forward as the creaky doors squeaked open like mice being stepped on.

“Get out of my way!”

A sweaty man barreled towards her, face red and blazing. She vaguely stared as crazed eyes pierced her in a frenzy of fear, self-preservation, and rabid craziness. A bag of trashy riches vaguely resembling the collections of Miss Aidafield spilling from a ratty pillow case turned bag is clutched by white knuckles, trembling the way a cornered animal shakes at a predator.

The knuckles are almost as pale as the ones clutching the dull gun. 

 The fingers shake violently, and the nerve wrecked male points, shouting incoherently.

She steps out of the elevator, face blank, and the hand clutches the gun even tighter than before.

Somewhere, there is a scream of horror, but it isn’t from her, for she never had any regrets left to tie her down. It is a scream of the murder of perceived humanity, and it is a scream of losing man.

“Evelyn Walker dies peacefully at age 20 after an unfortunate accident.”

And as the panting man waits for that creaky elevator to finally open the doors to his escape, a voice inside him howls, “how sickening.”