Wormhole
By alexislebaroudeur
- 318 reads
The shame was an everyday occurence. He tried to hide it with words, thrown in like afterthoughts when the weight of all things settled as a dull, numbing headache. But those around him could see the hollow eyes, the fidgeting hands.
They gave away his stance to pain better than his feeble attemps to smile, better than any calm, collected, watch-ticking conversation.
Albert's shame was a blind, hungry worm, turning everything and anything into the reminder that what ever he did next, the pattern of failure and guilt would run its course. So hungry was this worm, that Albert spent lunch breaks riding the subway from end to end, his guts tied in a sailor's knot, the unfurled sails of his hands hanging limp.
"If anyone recognizes me sitting here ... That would be pretty bad" he thought, peering at the dirt underneath the metro seats. It had formed a wavy layer of silt in the places where no one ever stood. He wondered how many more years of neglect it would take for moss to start growing under the sickly yellow plastic. Taking a bite out of his apple, he wagered "enough". From between his thumb and forefinger, a small black seed flew into the dust, where it promptly resumed its coma. Albert let himself smile for a brief second, before his thoughts plummeted to the cellphone buzzing angrily in his pocket.
Repressing a choice four letter word, he bowed to the inevitable.
"Good afternoon, sir, would you have a minute to talk about your financial future? Here at VeriGold we have a fifteen year, low interest inves-". The dial tone hung in the air for a few seconds, an adimensional bell's toll ("For what service?" he wondered again). Although Albert did not care for telemarketing schemes more than the average young adult (take a guess), he could never shake off the feeling of guilt that came from being so rude. As a matter of fact, he had often fantasized about answering to those lone voices on the other end of the phone; asking them who they were, how they had landed such sad jobs, if they had any goldfish, how much they needed sleep. But the worm inside him, fearful for its own survival, never saw those plans through.
Telemarketers are masters in the subtle art of provoking loneliness, especially when one's phone never rings in the first place.
After what seemed like a brief conversation with his phone's network settings (Menu>Settings>Network>Airplane Mode), Albert looked up from his worn out sneakers. The subway had emerged from its shadow lair, lurching forwards at an irregular 27 MPH.
It was sunny in the suburbs.
As the automated voice in the subway speakers announced the halfway point in Albert's trip, he realized how many times it had been, going back and forth from station to station, never getting off save when it was necessary. The pictures would appear successively like a slide presentation about failed architectural ventures, bland, blander, blandest. Once again, Albert felt shame at his own coyness (or was it cowardice?). Strangely enough, the feeling did not rise in his chest as he expected. Instead, he found himself standing up from his seat. For an uncanny second, the blood rushed out of his head, tripping his legs up as if he had been drinking. As the feeling dispersed, he took a step forward onto the weathered, wrinkled concrete outside of the wagon.
"This feels an awful lot like one of those cheesy "young man finds himself after insurmountable obstacles are surmounted" stories" he thought wryly. "I should do something completely off kilter, right now".
Turning towards the nearest person on the platform, Albert pulled the vilest face he could muster. "You are under arrest by order of the Space Trade Court!" he cackled in a high-pitched voice, before taking off as fast as he could.
The air was growing humid and warm. Out of breath, he stopped running and took a look around. Buildings had receded to a mere buzzcut on the skyline; small houses, a few trees. A typical suburban neighbourhood. Rather proud of his earlier performance, Albert sat on a nearby bench, and then smiled. There was some lichen growing between the flaky green planks over which he closed his eyes.
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There is something wonderful
There is something wonderful in this. Chimes with my own thoughts of breaking from passivity, oddly uplifting, defeat the worm within.
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