i'm almost done w my 2nd semester meaning i can FINALLY START WORKING ON MY ENTRY YAYYYYY here's a wip to hold myself accountable feel free to yell at me to finish this i promise it works
(@jthmzine obligatory tag so it doesn't go unseen)
My first contribution to the @jthmzine lovely project. "Prelude No. 1" is just a little glimpse into the life of an average normal guy looking for a bit of meaning just before he became someone's bestest friend in the room.
Why are ships found adrift in the ocean, completely empty? What do aliens do with the deformed Chihuahuas they abduct? Where do all the people who disappear in the city go? Why does no one ever talk about it?
Mysteries that may never have an answer but that make life a little more interesting; flooding our consciousness with small, magical theories and pseudo-rational explanations.
He liked to think about it. Although he didn't tell anyone. He spent routine afternoons cooking in the cramped kitchen of his tiny apartment, ruminating on any issue that seemed impossible to resolve.
"Where do all the people who disappear in the city go?"
That morning, Edgar Vargas left his house around 8 a.m., as usual. With the taste of burnt coffee mixed with toothpaste in his mouth, he hurried along the gloomy gray concrete streets to catch the subway. On the way, he bumped heavily into a street performer dressed as a robot, and received what (he assumed) were elaborate insults in the form of various screeching sounds and raucous whistles.
God, how he hated street performers.
Once on the subway, Edgar rested his temple against the window and let his imagination run wild. Perhaps people disappeared because of some government conspiracy. Perhaps they were recruited by secret agencies to infiltrate other countries as civilians. Perhaps they were kidnapped in a ploy to steal their memories and create exact copies of those who were taken, undetectable to their family and friends.
“That keeps me safe,” Edgar thought to himself. “I have no one who could recognize me. It wouldn’t do them any good to make an exact copy of me.”
Without family or friends, the man led a solitary life, framed by a rigid and unchanging routine; making the same decisions every day that, like bricks, built the walls of his small personal prison. The same place to eat. The same dish every day. The same isolated desk in the corner of the office.
There is safety in the sameness. There is refuge in monotony.
No one can hurt you if you're alone.
Perhaps his life had not been crowned with any exemplary tragedy, up to that moment, but Edgar could not boast that he had made the best decisions either, although at the end of the day, and of his almost thirty years, he did not regret much.
Maybe if he'd dared to ask that girl from college out, he'd be living with her now. If he'd chosen creative writing instead of accounting, perhaps he wouldn't be spending endless hours reviewing spreadsheets and signing documents. If only he'd asked that guy at the bar for his phone number, perhaps he wouldn't have to eat dinner alone tonight.
Although, those are just theories. Part of the many mysteries that may never be answered, and it's not as interesting to think about them as it is to wonder where all the people who disappear end up.
There was something, however, that Edgar perhaps did regret.
If he could change anything right now, he would choose not to be so utterly dispensable. To have made at least a small difference in the world. Everyone leaves a mark; until now, he hadn't done anything. He didn't even dare to read the Gospels in church. Perhaps if he had time before the government or the aliens abducted him, he could choose to do something different.
One choice. That was all it took.
And as if by divine revelation, it happened on the way home.
The sun was beginning to set on the horizon and painted the city sky an orange that faded to pink; even the smog clouds gave it a certain magical tinge. The dirty, polluted water of the river under the bridge that Edgar crossed every day reflected the sun's rays with iridescence.
Edgar stopped halfway across the bridge, and out of the corner of his eye, saw something moving near the bank. It was a small bird, tangled in a thread of fishing line.
Edgar understood the message.
Life was giving him the opportunity to make a difference, at least once.
He picked up the small bird and very carefully removed the fishing line from its body. The little bird trembled in his hand, but didn't seem to be hurt. Edgar stroked its head and gently opened his hands. The bird hesitated for a couple of seconds, but when it realized it was free, it flew away as fast as it could.
One single decision. That was all it took to make a difference in his gray and monotonous life.
Inspired, Edgar turned around. Instead of continuing on to the subway, he headed towards the most alternative café that he could find nearby. Today he would do something different; today he would go somewhere new.
He walked optimistically to the rhythm of a sound behind him– a metallic pair of boots, scraping and thudding against the concrete.
Today he would go somewhere new.
…
The sadists, the ironists, and all those who rejoice in the misfortune of others will say he deserved it. That he should have stayed inside his little brick prison: safe behind each of his predictable and habitual choices. That this is what happens to people who think they can make a difference in this place.
However, elsewhere in the city, there's a little bird making a nest. And perhaps it wouldn't be there if it weren't for the man who now hangs from a hideous machine in Johnny C.'s hellish basement.
