Outside the window, the rain coated the luscious vegetation in an ethereal enigma. The sound emitting from the pattering rain drops was hardly enough to put her mind at ease, nothing felt right anymore. Never before had she thought that she'd be living in these circumstances, and that's what bothered her the most.
It's been almost a week now, and he still hasn't come back home. His physical presence still didn't matter all that much -- it's as though he wasn't there even though his body was; he was nothing short of a shell that happened to breath and move. He'd sit alone at the dinner table for hours, just staring out the window. He'd ignore his children, all of them. He'd rarely eat and when he did, he'd never finish. He wouldn't clean, he wouldn't maintain his hygiene, he wouldn't read like he used to...he wouldn't live, he'd only survive.
Christina valiantly tried to get through to him in the hopes that her husband might snap back to reality. It didn't take long for her to realize that it was all in vain. She gave up, her epiphany being that he was irrevocably dead in the spiritual sense. The only question that kept her and their children around was why. Why was he like this, after so many years of euphoric intimacy and compassion? Just a few months ago, they were all gathered around the plasma screen T.V., laughing and enjoying each other's company. They were all so happy, what happened?
Of all things Christina tried, she was fairly certain that reminding her husband of their faith would prove to be a minute bit effectual. His only reaction was to say, "what divine being would curse a person with this? Stupid. Fucking cruel. Either God's an asshole, or He doesn't exist. Fuck off with that shit." Christina was surprised to have received more than a single grunt out of the man, but she was still discontented. Her dissatisfaction soon transpired into an apoplectic disposition towards his existence. At least, that's something he elicited out of anything besides a frustrated atmospheric Hell. Something.
He'd usually be back by now. This was the longest Christina and their children had gone without his icy presence, and while peaceful, it still spawned an empty feeling within everyone around him. Idris affected everyone he came into contact with, and he never even noticed.
"Hey mom," Christina's eldest greeted as he passed through the front door, coming home from school. He was an attractive boy standing at about five feet and seven inches, and he fancied his father in terms of physical appearance but veered towards his mother in personality. He was sixteen with an insufferably deep and booming voice, perfect for public speaking and expressing his ideals in general. He was an introvert by nature.
She gave him a sweet smile, walking yearnfully to her son to envelope him in an intimate, motherly hug. She held him for almost a minute before he finally broke the silence. "I love you too, mom," he stated with a confused tone of voice. She chuckled, tearing up a bit as her jovial smile deteriorated into a crier's open-mouthed frown. Everything was coming together all at once, completely overwhelming her.
He took quick notice and slowly returned the hug, understanding perfectly well what was on her mind. What wouldn't leave her brain bothered everyone else in the house, they were all in the same boat. "I'm sorry, mom...," he mellisonantly said, an attempt to mitigate her pain. He knew it was useless, though.
Better to let the tears keep falling.
An hour passed, the other two children were with their grandfather down in Jacksonville, a city in Florida where Christina was born and raised. They went over there every other week just to visit. The eldest couldn't stand the guy, Michael's thoughts on life and social issues differed greatly from that of his grandfather's. It led to a few arguments and at least two physical confrontations. They went well together.
Christina was in her bedroom, her laptop's monitor illuminated as she laid back and watched a movie. Distractions were always pleasant to have on standby for the times when thinking was detrimental. Michael was in his bedroom as well, browsing social media while smoking a cigarette on his custom-built desktop computer. He used a plastic soda bottle with a bit of water as an ashtray -- practical, he deemed it. He had a vicious habit of losing the cap, making the disposal of his creation difficult.
An average night, the same thing over and over again. They enjoyed their comfortable lifestyle, it was like a safety net that kept them from going deeper into a dark, frightening emotional and mental chasm.
Christina was asleep now, Michael supposed it was time for him to do the same. He turned off his computer, sitting idly in his chair as he stared blankly at the computer's BIOS working its magic. The monitor was pitch black now, and Michael heaved a sigh and laid down in his bed.
Dream a little dream, he thought as he dozed off.
Dreams were something Michael held in high regard for almost the entirety of his life. Dreams often bring us closer to ourselves, all you have to do is pay attention. At one point, he dreamed of drifting through a dark cavern filled with murky water in search of the girlfriend he had at the time. He'd call out her name, only for his desperate beckoning to be returned with his echo and an antagonistic pattering of footsteps off in the distance. It was the same thing night after night...a hopeless search bundled into an enigma.
It wasn't until much later that he figured out what his dreams were trying to tell him. One of the main reasons the relationship fell apart is because she was a bit of a recluse when it came to interaction with him...with anybody, really. Michael spent so much time trying to find her in the darkness she willfully resided in, only to have his efforts rendered useless as she'd figuratively run off again. The relationship finally came to an inevitable conclusion when she finally gave him the light of day and elucidated her actual thoughts for the guy. "God, you're so annoyingly clingy. Just stop it, okay? It's not like this is going to go anywhere. Fuck off already." He cried for about a week.
Tonight, he dreamed of running down a dimly-lit road in the middle of the night. The only article of clothing he had on were his plaid undergarments. What he was running from, he couldn't tell you to save his life. His legs carried him effortlessly with the wind until he came to an immense precipice. With his breathing insufferably rapid, he jumped down and felt the elements of the world perpetually skimming past his face, smacking him along the way. He was free-falling, free from whatever it was that was causing him to run.
He now had on a red t-shirt and crisp, blue jeans. It didn't seem to startle him when he noticed he was no longer in only a pair of underwear. His eyes were completely passive, not changing in position nor in comfort. His lips were held firmly together, his ears didn't flap at all. It was as if he was standing in an office, and not falling at a speed that should terrify anyone with a level head on their shoulders.
Despite the impending landing he was soon to make, Michael impavidly accepted his circumstances. He slowly closed his eyes, awaiting the inevitable fatality he was facing in only a matter of seconds. The wind pierced his ears, the chill coursing through his now-icy veins. Only a little father down now, only a little more...
He didn't feel the ground hit him. Instead, he opened his eyes to find that he was standing in the middle of his chemistry classroom, in nothing but his underwear. His classmates, teachers, and even a multitude of unfamiliar faces stood in a circle around him. They stared intimidatingly, not showing any sign of finding his vulnerable state risible. They just stood there...staring.
Michael didn't know what to do. He started crying profusely, dropping down to his knees and facing the now-moist tiled flooring. They all seemed to inch closer every time he happened to look up. Oh dear God, please let me go home, let me go, please...
He looked up one last time, expecting to be mutilated, stretched apart, or something of the sort. He was in the darkness of his bedroom, completely awake at three in the morning. The air around him seemed to stand in perfect unison with what life felt like -- still.
He took a deep breath and went to go use the bathroom. He was impeded in his trek to the toilet by the reflection in the mirror. He gazed at himself, glassy eyes and a twisting stomach subduing him. Something about the way he spoke, something about the way he was spoken to and treated bothered him immensely. He couldn't put his finger on why, though. He passed off his discomfort around girls as "just boys being boys." Even that ignorant and sexist statement killed him internally as it passed through his head more and more.
It was too early to worry about it, and he already had a hectic few hours trailing behind him. Just a problem for another day.
After doing what he came to do, he went back to bed.
Dream a better dream, he thought as he dozed off.
