Beneath Tooth's Pillow

[toothflick]

To Catch a Cat
​

I lean back in my chair and stretch my arms. I'm finally done with work for the day.

Despite only doing an average day's work with no overtime added on, I'm way more exhausted than I've felt all month.

I'm not sure how much longer I can live like this.

"Hey Yernzer! You're finished with those balance sheets, right?" my co-worker—I believe his last name is Extrible—calls out to me.

"Yeah, I am. What do you need?" I ask.

"I don't need anything, I just wanted to ask if you wanna come with Resturl, Potterston, and I for drinks!"

"I appreciate the offer, but I already have plans for today."

"Really?" says Extrible, clearly suspicious of me, "You've been saying the same thing for the past month. If you don't want to hang out with us, just tell us upfront. Seriously man, it's fine."

"I understand, but I really do have plans. I've never lied about this."

"…I see. Well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow then."

"Yeah, see you tomorrow."

I watch Extrible walk off.

I don't understand why I felt the need to lie to him. He even told me it was okay to just say that I didn't want to go with him. Why do I always do this? Why can I never say what I mean?

I suppose it's never a lie that I have other plans, but my "plans" can always be easily postponed. Even if I didn't have plans, I'm still not sure if I'd accept their invitations.

It's not like I dislike Extrible, Resturl, or Potterston or anything like that, but at the same time the idea of spending more time around them than is absolutely necessary disgusts me.

Why?

I have no answer for myself. All I can do is grab my things and head for the park.

After a hard day of work, I like to relax in the local park, it's one of the few bright spots in this pathetic life of mine. My main reason for visiting the park is because of a cat that's always there. It's a special cat with distinctive cyan fur that's contrasted with a dark black spot on its stomach. I've never seen a cat like that before, I doubt that there are any others like it. Moreover, it seems to never leave this park. I've been going to this park regularly for the past seven months and every day–without fail–I always find that cat lazing around the slides with its piercing green eyes fixed on me all the while. I've grown quite attached to it and every day fear that it won't be waiting for me the next time I'm at the park. Because of this anxiety, I've resolved to catch this cat and bring it home with me as my pet. It's the only way for me to obtain peace of mind.

Of course, I first made this resolution months ago.

I wonder if today I'll continue my trend of making a mockery of my resolve.

The cat now lies before me on top of the children's slide, at an equal elevation to my waist. If I'm truly serious about taking it home with me, this is my best chance to do it. I'm not sure I've ever seen it in such an easy location to grab it from before. This must be fate.

I take my first step forward. Unfortunately, I put more force into it than I intended which creates an audible footstep, and since it was loud enough for me to hear, then, for a cat's sharpened senses I may as well have been shattering glass. However, despite my blunder, the cat hasn't moved. Perhaps I'm too far away for it to feel threatened by me. For all it knows I could just be walking to the nearby water fountain.

With hesitation I lift up my right leg and carefully set it down in front of me.

Good, it didn't make a loud noise this time. I should be fine as long as I can maintain this rhythm–

"Human, why are you walking like that?"

I instinctively let out a yelp. I frantically turn every which way in order to find out who is talking to me, "W-Who's there?!" I yell anxiously.

"You're a strange creature, human. I'm amazed at how bad you are at noticing what's directly in front of you."

Looking ahead, I finally realize that it's the cat that's talking to me, "You can talk?!"

"Why do you ask a question you already know the answer to? You can clearly hear me talking to you right now." says the cat haughtily as it scratches at its ear, "But yes, in case you're still confused, I can talk. Now tell me why you were walking so strangely."

"W-Well, it's just that cats aren't supposed to be able to talk-"

"And how many cats have you tried speaking to?" interrupts the feline.

"I-I guess none…"

"That's what I thought."

I suppose that's fair. Maybe all cats can actually speak and it's my fault for never trying to strike up a conversation with them, I shouldn't presume to understand all the world's complexities. It's arrogant of me to mistake my baseless assumptions with fact.

Looking at things in this light I realize that I've been quite rude. It's no wonder the cat sounds so impatient with me, "You're right, I'm sorry for being so disrespectful," I say while bowing my head in shame.

"I'm glad to see you have some degree of shame, most of your kind lacks this most basic of qualities. But enough dawdling! Hurry up and answer my first question!" demands the cat as it plays with its tail.

I can't remember the first question the cat asked me, I was too startled for it to fully register in my mind, "Um–well–you see…"

The cat's green eyes glare at me, "If you don't remember it, then say so, human. There's nothing that tires me more than wretches like you who seem to be allergic to concise speech."

"...I don't remember," I finally admit as my head droops down even further.

"I'm not fond of repeating myself," says the cat with a hiss-like edge to its voice, "But just this once, I'll make an exception. I asked you why you were moving in such an overly-cautious way."

"Oh, well I was trying to sneak up on you and bring you home as my pet," it's only after these words have left my mouth that I realize that this was a frankly moronic thing to say. The cat likely won't appreciate my desire to capture it.

When will I finally learn to think before I speak?

At this point there's nothing left for me to do but brace myself for the verbal onslaught that's to come.

However, instead of being upset at me, the cat merely gives me an ominous grin, "I see. If that's the case I'll allow it, but you must first agree to a stipulation of mine."

"Whatever it is, I'll do it," I say without fully knowing whether or not this is yet another of my overzealous lies.

"You're confident if nothing else," says the cat while licking its paw, "But my stipulation is that you need to let me bite your arm."

I let out a relieved sigh, "Oh that's it? Sure, I can do that."

The cat grins at me, its face contorting as if it's struggling to contain laughter, "Human. You have no idea what it means to get bitten by me, do you?"

I begin to tense up, "W-Well, it means that it will hurt a bit, right?"

The cat is now unable to contain its laughter and breaks into an uncanny chortle, "Behold you wretch! For this is what it means to get bitten by me!" As it says this it sinks its teeth into the corner of the metallic slide, breaking off a chunk with ease.

The cat spits the chunk of metal to the ground, "Human, after seeing what my jaw is capable of, are you still determined to make me your pet?"

My teeth are chattering, I don't quite understand why, it's not a chilly night after all.

Oh wait, it's actually pretty simple.

My teeth are chattering because I'm terrified. That cat's jaw is probably strong enough to tear the arm off my body.

I should give up on ever owning this cat. It's not worth it, "Yes, I can handle it if it means I can take you home," I reply, surprising myself as well as the cat.

I desperately want to take back my thoughtless resolve, but I fear that it's far too late for that; words aren't meaningless things that can be retracted on a whim. I have no choice but to obey whichever part of my soul induced me to say those words.

The cat's eyes widen slightly from my response, I suppose–much like me–it assumed that I'd give up, "You're an interesting fellow," it begins while cocking its head, "But we'll see how strong that resolve of yours is. Now sit down in front of me," it beckons to the dirt at the bottom of the slide.

I do as the cat says and take a kneeling position on the dirt in front of it.

"Good. Now extend your arm."

I extend my arm.

Without warning the cat leans forward and chomps on my elbow.

I can feel its sharp teeth piercing my skin.

The pain is excruciating.

I howl with pain, but as I do the cat's jaw unclenches. It seems it's stopped.

Is it finished already?

"Human," says the cat through bloodied teeth, "You most probably didn't understand the extent of the pain I'd inflict on you. Now that you have a taste of the suffering you will need to endure, I imagine you want to give up."

I squeeze my elbow in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding, "If I give up here, will you still come home with me?"

"Of course not."

"In that case, please continue," I'm surprised by how easy it is for me to say those words.

For the first time, the cat seems dumbfounded, "I see…" it says before regaining its composure and grinning at me, "We'll see how your bravado holds up." It sinks its teeth into my elbow once more.

I'm still in immense pain, but I can deal with it. I'm used to it now. As long as I let out short grunts of pain, I can manage it.

CRUNCH

It takes me a second before it fully registers that that horrible sound came from my own body, but once I do, my screams return. The cat's jaw is strong enough to pierce my very bones. I can feel, with horrific clarity, its teeth grinding my bones to pieces.

I can't take this.

I need this to stop.

It hurts too much.

I'm on the verge of shoving the cat off my arm when I obtain a moment of clarity within the pain: This is part of the cat's test. I can't give in here. I need to endure this.
I bite down on my lips to keep myself from screaming in pain.

I can endure this. I know I can. I just need to last a bit longer.

I stare at my watch, every second that passes feels like an hour. "Move faster!" is what I'd yell if my mouth was unrestrained.

One second passes. I can feel the initial fracture spreading to the rest of my arm.

Two seconds pass. My arm bone is broken into numerous large chunks.

Three seconds pass. Those large chunks are being broken down into smaller chunks.

Four seconds pass. Those smaller chunks are now being ground to dust.

Five seconds pass. The cat unclenches its jaw.

I did it.

I grin at the cat with triumph, "That's it right?! I did it! You'll be my pet now, right!"

The cat shakes its head, and with it my heart drops, "No human," it says, "That wasn't the full extent of my power. The reason why I've stopped is to give you another chance to back out, this next round will be the last. This time I'll bite down on your arm with the full force of my power. There's a high likelihood that your arm will get torn off of your body. Normally I wouldn't be upfront about this, but you've impressed me with the courage you've shown thus far, this is my way of showing respect for you. You don't have to accept this, if you walk away now your arm will heal with time and I'll still recognize you as one of the bravest creatures I've ever met and a credit to your species."

I remain silent for a few seconds–partially because I'm honestly terrified that the cat still hasn't used its full strength against me, and partially because I'm considering its proposition–but finally, I speak up: "If I give up now will you still agree to be my pet?"

The cat gives me a perplexed look, "No, I already told you this…"

"In that case, continue. I won't give up until you agree to come home with me."

"Human, are you certain? You should know as well as I just how bad this is going to get."

"Yeah, of course I do. I'm so scared I'm shaking all over, but nonetheless I'm ready."

The cat seems to respect my resolve as it returns its mouth to my elbow, but just as it's about to bite down an important thought crosses my mind, "Hold on!" I shout.
The cat looks at me, "I see that you've changed your mind-"

"No, it's not that," I interrupt, "I just wanted to tell you that if I start screaming you should still continue, only stop if I specifically say 'Stop', got it?"

The cat nods at me, "Very well, human. Here I go," and with those words it bites down.

I can feel it.

I can feel its sharp teeth piercing beyond my bone, to the very joint of my arm.

The force of its jaw penetrating my elbow joint sends a shock throughout my body. Almost as if my brain is screaming at me that whatever is causing this attack on my body needs to be stopped. However, I ignore my body's warnings and remain silent.

It's only a matter of time until my joint is destroyed, if I'm lucky it will stop there, but I know that there's a decent chance that I'll end up losing my arm in its entirety; but it's fine, this is fine, I'm fine with losing my arm for the sake of gaining such a valuable companion. I lead a hollow life after all. I don't have any family members to take care of, I don't have any meaningful friendships or even anyone I care enough to grow close to, I don't have any dreams, nor do I even have a fulfilling job. This cat is my only chance to find hope and purpose in this pathetic life of mine.

…But is that really true?

Why am I enduring such pain for the sake of companionship? is obtaining a purpose in life really worth such a great sacrifice? Besides, I haven't even considered the fact that if I become unable to control my arm, I'll need to request extended leave from my firm to recover from the loss of a limb, and who's to say if my higher-ups will accept my request and not just get rid of me on the spot? I'm being extremely conceited if I expect my company to patiently wait for the recovery of a middling employee such as I. As monotonous as my work is, I still need it to live. Even if I can endure this and get that cat to go home with me, how would I even take care of it? A jobless man can't take care of a cat.

To abandon everything to take in this cat would be to leave both of our futures entirely to fate. It would almost certainly lead both of us to ruin. I need to stop this; besides, I'll still be able to meet the cat in this park, it's not like I'll lose it forever.

"Stop!" I shout just as my joint is about to shatter.

The cat stops, and stares at me, its piercing green eyes filled with disappointment, "I don't understand human," it says, "I was just about to reach my limit. Why would you come so far just to give up now?"

Unable to bear the feline's piercing gaze any longer, I close my eyes, "I-I g-guess…" I stammer, "I guess I'm just not ready for that level of sacrifice… I'm sorry."
I anxiously wait for the cat to respond.

Minutes pass before I finally open my eyes.

There's nothing there.

It seems the cat has left.

Somehow, I know for a fact that we'll never meet again.

I turn around and start walking home, clutching my wounded arm all the while.

How pathetic.

 

[toothflick]

The Living Corpse​

I'm alive.

This realization causes me to shudder.

I'm alive, yet darkness surrounds me.

I'm alive, yet I can barely move.

I'm alive, yet a putrid musty scent envelops my nostrils.

Fear overwhelms me, I thrash around, trying desperately to escape from my confines, but to no avail.

I scream for help, scream until my dry throat can no longer scream, but either no one hears me or they don't care enough to help me.

As I begin to comprehend the hopelessness of the situation, I finally start to calm down.

Perhaps other people don't feel the same way, but I've always taken great comfort in the inevitable. The knowledge that any possible expenditure of effort will result in futility comforts me, it eases the pain that normally comes from my flakey indecisiveness.

Wherever I am, I'm trapped. Escape is impossible and no one can hear me. I'm going to die here and there's no question about that. It doesn't matter how hard I try to free myself, the result will be the same.

I suppose that's not entirely true, if I tire myself out faster I'll likely die faster, but that's really just semantics. I'll end up in the same place regardless, it's just a question of time.

I stretch myself out, but it appears the space I'm in is too narrow for such a thing. In fact, I can't even lie down at my full height. In order to fit in here I have to keep my knees bent.

That's annoying, but there isn't really anything I can do about it so I should try not to think about it too hard.

Instead, my mind wanders to the question of where I even am in the first place.

I brush my hands against the walls of my confines.

They're greeted by the sensation of well-sanded wood.

It's now that I finally realize where I am.

This must be a coffin.

I'm in a coffin, buried several feet beneath the earth.

This would explain both my wooden confines and the all-encompassing musty scent.

But why?

I'm not dead, so why am I being treated like a corpse?

…Oh, wait. I think I get it now.

I vaguely remember hearing about this a couple of years back. That, sometimes, people are buried prematurely. Despite a lack of any sort of pulse or breathing, their bodies miraculously spring back to life a few days after being declared dead.

I remember thinking that it was an interesting fact at the time and nothing more. The full implications of what it means to be falsely declared deceased are only just dawning upon me.

To be mistaken for dead means to be cremated alive or to either slowly die of starvation or asphyxiation underground.

I'm going to die one of the most miserable deaths imaginable.

I can feel my heart, so silent just a few days ago when I needed it, pounding wildly within my chest as I frantically waste what little air I have left hyperventilating as I start screaming with my dry throat and pounding my fists against the lid of the coffin.

It's not long before the futility of these attempts dawn upon me and the previous indifference with which I regarded the thought of death returns. There's no other path for me but to accept the gruesome end I'm going to meet.

It's with this acceptance of the inevitable that I fall asleep.

When I awake from my dreamless sleep I try to stretch myself out as I normally do after waking up, but I'm unfortunately reminded by my inability to do so about the situation I'm currently in.

I'm still going to die.

Well, I should try not to be so negative about it.

I know!

Maybe I'll make up a list of things that make me happy about dying!

Let's see, I'm happy I won't have to see my landlord's stupid face again, especially not that obnoxious grin of his whenever he announces that he's raising rent. I hope he likes trying to collect rent from a corpse!

…Wait, can you collect rent from a corpse?

But if I didn't bequeath any money to him in my will, I don't see why he should see a cent of it!

…But then again, I haven't written a will in the first place.

I think the law may be on his side with this one. He might be getting his money from either the savings I leave behind or from my family.

I really don't want him to badger my parents about this. I can picture it now, him showing up to their house, pretending to look all sad like he actually cares that I'm dead. He'll stick around for a half hour or so, just long enough to create the impression that we were on friendly terms, and only then will he bring up the rent I owe. Of course he'll pretend to be so sorry to bring it up, but my mom will see straight through him and understand that he's a snake. My poor dad on the other hand, since he's always been on the gullible side, will take the weasel at his word and probably try to lean on him in his grief, mistaking the wretch for a friend.

Just thinking about it makes me sick.

…Okay, this has not made me feel better about my fate in the slightest.

...Or, I guess it has to an extent, since the thought of dying now fills me more with anger than it does with fear.

So that's something, I guess.

I'm getting tired of this stupid position I'm stuck in, I can't stand another second of lying face-up with my knees all bent.

I try to maneuver myself into a fetal position but in the end it feels just as uncomfortable as it did before.

No, in fact, it's even more uncomfortable since there's something jabbing my thigh.

Wait…

I reach into my pants pocket.

I feel the handle of the pocket knife my friend got me for my birthday.

It seems like the undertakers (or whoever it is that's in charge of removing the possessions from corpses) forgot to take it away.

I remember how disappointed I was with the gift at the time! I was hoping for something as pointless as a poster of some character or other I have a fondness for, yet it's this "disappointing" gift that might very well be what saves my life.

I now have an obligation: to escape from this purgatory and thank my friend in proper for this most auspicious of gifts.

I trace my fingers over the knife until I identify where the sharp side is. Once I do, I plunge the knife into the wood above me.

It pierces the wood (thankfully, it appears that my coffin was rather cheaply made) and I thus begin to cut an opening with which I can finally slip out of my prison.

As I make this opening, bits of dirt from the ground above begins to leak into the coffin.

In hindsight, it was extremely foolish of me to start cutting the portion directly above my head before any other part of the coffin, since flakes of dirt and rocks are now falling into my mouth, nostrils, and ears, greatly impeding my progress on the rest of the box.

However, I endure this and succeed in cutting apart the top of my prison.

The instant the last of the wood connecting the roof to the sides is severed, the cover slams down on my body, crushing me beneath the added weight of the dirt above me.

I can't help but swallow some of the dirt.

I'm drowning beneath the earth.

I can't breathe anymore, with each inhalation, I draw in an immense amount of dirt and rocks into my body.

I have to hurry and escape, muster whatever strength I have left in this pathetic body of mine and break free.

If I was going to let myself die, it would have been preferable to do so within the coffin where my annihilation would at least be peaceful.

Not like this.

I don't want to die like this.

I REFUSE to die like this.

Drawing on an unknown strength I didn't know I possessed, I succeed in turning the coffin cover on its side so as to no longer crush me.

I then stand up, bearing the weight of the entire world on top of me as I push up with all my might, until, finally my face pierces the earth.

I attempt to take in the fresh air, but I find that I can't.

It's raining, and heavily at that.

It's raining so hard that I begin to choke on the water pooling around my face.

I try to muster one last burst of strength to escape, but I find my strength depleted.

I have no energy left to draw upon.

Tears stream down my face as my consciousness begins to fade.

With such a half-hearted desire for life, it was inevitable that I would fail.

My freedom was impossible in the end.

Ultimately, I was nothing more than a corpse.

Did I even want to live in the first place?

 

[toothflick]

The Meaning of a Beard​

"Can't you just shave that disgusting thing already!?" asks my annoyed mother for neither the first nor the last time.

"I don't want to shave my beard," I reply resolutely for neither the first nor the last time.

"At least trim it then, please!" begs my mother for neither the first nor the last time, "You're a handsome boy, why do you keep ruining your face with that mess?! It's not even consistent, it's growing in patches for god's sake! How do you think it looks good in any way!?"

This is it, this is the pivotal moment, if I can just explain why I desperately cling to my disgusting beard I can be saved, all I have to do is reach out and grab it.

"I…" my voice trails off, any intelligible sounds in my throat have broken off into a pathetic croak.

I can't do it. I can't reveal who I am, not to my mother and not to anyone.

Instead I run out of the kitchen and into the bathroom.

I brush my hand over my beard. It's just as my mother says, there's no word to describe it other than an "abomination."

It grows in patches, my chin and neck containing many random splotches of bare skin with no hair growing out of it, making it look like someone took a razor and hacked away at my beard at random.

What hair does grow, grows in unsightly curly clumps that refuses to separate themselves no matter what I do. They branch out in random directions, as though it's a growth of vines that's slowly overtaking my face.

My mother's right to be disgusted about it, because it is disgusting.

However, what she doesn't understand, and what I'm too scared to say, is that it's precisely this disgustingness that I love about it.

I despise the rest of my face, from my chiseled jawline to my perfectly combed hair, everything else about my head is the epitome of neatness and order.

It's all a lie.

When I look at my face I don't see myself, I see someone else, someone who's confident, someone with integrity, someone who can get things done.

What I don't see is the anxious, wishy-washy, incompetent wretch that I am.

This disparity is so great, my face such a contradiction, that, in my weaker moments, I feel tempted to take a knife and hack my face to pieces, to scar up that perfect jaw, to peel away that smooth forehead, to rupture those firm cheeks, to pierce those moist eyes so that I can finally look like myself.

In those moments, the only thing that saves me is my beard, my horrible disgusting beard, it's the only part of my face that feels like it belongs to me. I yearn to let it take over my face, to finally become myself.

But I can't do that, my friends and family think I don't care about what other people think, but they're wrong, so very wrong. I'm terrified of their judgment and scorn. They may think that I don't trim my beard, but I do.

Every month I take a knife to it and hack myself into a slightly more acceptable shape, preventing myself from ever truly becoming myself.

If I explained this, would they accept me?

I don't know.

All I know is that my beard is starting to get a bit too long and needs to be cut.

 

[toothflick]

Various Questions Regarding the Concept of Love​

I stare at the ground as I idly watch the strawberry ice cream I bought in what can only be described as a mid-life crisis induced frenzy a few minutes before drip to the pavement. It's not long before ants rush in to greedily lap up the melted sugar water.

Why did I even bother buying strawberry ice cream in the first place? I've always hated strawberry, I've hated it since I was a small child. Why did I think that now, as I approach the end of my thirties, I'd suddenly have a change of heart on the flavor?

Whatever, I should focus more on the fellow sitting beside me than on my questionable financial decisions.

"Sorry for trailing off like that" I apologize as I stare up into my companion's piercing green eyes, "I have a habit of getting lost in pointless thoughts, what were we talking about again?"

"There's no reason to apologize," they reply in a barely audible whisper, "It's a personal belief of mine that anything that can so totally preoccupy a person's mind isn't pointless in the slightest. Whatever it was that you were thinking about is far more important than you give it credit for. However, if you're done with that line of thought, you were in the middle of telling me about your family. It was when you mentioned to me that you have a wife and child that your thoughts started to wander."

I smile meekly at the fellow, "You're giving me more credit than I deserve, what distracted me was thinking about my ice cream, more specifically, why I bought three scoops of strawberry ice cream even though I can't stand the stuff."

"I feel as though I'm giving you exactly as much credit as you deserve. It's within this question of your purchase of ice cream that your entire personality unravels itself."

"You really don't have to butter me up like that."

They give me a cold stare, "If empty pity was all you thought I was expressing, then so be it."

I don't quite know how to respond to this, so I choose to ignore this comment and carry on as if my company's previous reply hadn't happened, "With my wife and son, I don't have much to say. She's a systems engineer and he's a second year high school student. Unlike me, they're both extremely bright and kind people."

They lean forward, entranced by my explanation, "Why don't you consider yourself a bright or kind person?"

I smile sardonically, "That's easy, if I was smart I wouldn't have married and had a kid, if I was kind, I would love them. Since they're both really great, the kind of wife and son a lot of folks would kill for."

"You really think they're that incredible?"

"Of course."

"But you still wish you never married?"

"That's right."

"You have to elaborate after saying something so cryptic."

"That's fair, sorry," I say as I stroke my chin, trying to figure out how to express my feelings, "I guess… Well… It's like this, you know how it's a big thing how most people talk about celebrity crushes they had when they were kids or something?"

They nod.

"Well, I've never had one, the idea of it always struck me, frankly speaking, incredibly creepy… but I'm not explaining myself properly, I'm making it sound like I've never been interested in love or anything like that."

"So you were once interested in love?"

"That's the thing… I honestly don't know… I was a pretty gloomy young man, you see… I guess in a lot of ways I'm still plenty gloomy now, but the thing is… I guess, I viewed falling in love, getting married, starting a family as a way to save myself from destruction… but I was wrong. I haven't saved myself from anything. I have everything I thought would make me feel happy and fulfilled but I still feel just as empty as before. If anything, it's even worse now, because back when I was by myself I took a lot of comfort in the thought that I could end my life at any time, but now… now that I have a wife and a kid who both care about me and would be sad if I died, I just can't do that…"

"That's very admirable," replies my companion.

"Admirable?!" I almost shout, "What about this is admirable?! It's a disgrace is what it is!"

"A disgrace to who?"

I once again don't have an answer for them, therefore I try to change the topic, "Anyway! The point is… I got married to a woman I don't love and had a kid with her who I also don't love. Everyday, I go to work at my stupid accounting firm that I hate even though my wife makes enough money at the job she actually loves that I can just quit, but whenever she brings up the idea I always make up nonsense about how I love my job and my coworkers too much to quit. When in reality, I'm simply terrified at the thought of spending my entire day at home in that stupid house."

I look down at my watch, "I've been yapping on for way too long, I should be on my way, my son will probably want some help with his algebra homework, I shouldn't inconvenience him like this. Thanks for listening to me whine about a bunch of pointless stuff that doesn't matter."

I try to wolf down my remaining ice cream in a hurry, but the instant my tongue makes contact with the top scoop on my cone, a wave of nausea overwhelms me.

I fall off the bench in agony, but, thankfully, I manage to spread out my hands to stop my face from slamming into the pavement. My hands wind up crushing the little colony of ants that were feasting on the melted drips of my ice cream in the process. The fellow beside me laughs, but I'm too exhausted to offer any rebuke.

"You know what it sounds like to me?" they ask once their laughter settles down, knowing fully well that I'm in no position to respond, "To me it sounds like you love your family more than anything else in the world."

I'm able to control my retching enough to cry out, "Were you even listening to a thing I said!?"

"Of course I was, that's why I can say this with confidence. You love them," although I say nothing since I'm too nauseous, they probably have an idea of what I want to say by the look on my face, "Not everyone has the same definition of love, for some people, love is a powerful feeling that echoes throughout their body, and for other people–like you–love is a far more subtle feeling, but nonetheless just as powerful, if not more so."

"Let me tell you this. People like you were destined for misery. Whether you married or not, your sense of powerlessness over the whims of fate would remain the same. Your happiness has been decreed by heaven to be fleeting and ephemeral, you will only ever experience short little drops of it in the midst of oceans of sadness and despair. However, people like you are the strongest people alive, most people need gallons and gallons of happiness to overcome life's hardships, but for you, all you need is a few drops, and–whether you admit to it or not–your drops come from your family. Sure, you don't love them in a traditional sense, perhaps you've never truly desired your wife or taken pride in your son, but nevertheless, you love them."

I manage to drag myself to my feet, "So that's it then? All I can do is just bare with it?! Just keep pretending nothing is wrong even though I can feel myself dying everyday! Why am I the only one who has to live like this!?"

My companion shrugged, "I'm not the one you should be asking these questions to, frankly I don't know why you in particular were saddled with these feelings, but even if I did, it wouldn't change anything would it? There's only one thing you can do."

"…and what's that?"

They smile, "Come on, you don't need me to spell it out for you. You already know what I mean, and are just waiting to hear someone else say it. But, things like this, other people will never say, the only person who can is you yourself."

At the moment those words leave their lips, a blinding light emanates from their face.

It's so bright that I can't help but avert my gaze.

When I look back, my companion is gone, leaving nothing but my ice cream cone, carefully balanced between the cracks in the bench.

I remove the cone and begin licking at my ice cream.

For some reason, the wretched strawberry flavor doesn't taste nearly as unbearable now.

 

[toothflick]

The Death of a Giant

​

"Long ago, there was a giant who resided here. A man of conviction who scraped and struggled to reach the highest heights known to man, whose size dwarfed the tallest of trees, the largest of skyscrapers, the mightiest of mountains, and even me, as hard as it must be to imagine."

"Naturally, a being of such immense size drew the attention of many. As such, it wasn't long before the entire world was fascinated by the giant.–I remember that at first you could barely last a day without coming across a newspaper article on him or hearing radio shows' gossip about him– For most, their interest stemmed from the simple spectacle of him, treating him as nothing more than a cheap circus act.–It shames me to admit, but at the time I felt the same way as those media scoundrels, I merely viewed that incredible man as nothing more than a simple conversation piece: 'Have you guys heard about that weird giant guy?' is what I'd say. It disgusts me to remember I once spoke that way about such a great man."

"Eventually a news station–I forget which one–sent some people out to interview him, the reason why no one tried until that point was because they had trouble figuring out the logistics of how to even get the giant to hear their questions; it was a lot trickier in those days since we didn't have anything like the crazy sound equipment you're using to speak with me now, instead they had to use a helicopter to bring the interviewers up to the giant's ear. While they asked more than this, three questions in particular formed the crux of the interview: Was the giant always this big? How did he grow so large? And most perplexing of all, why did he even want to be so massive in the first place?"

"The giant's answers were broadcast for all to hear.–Unfortunately, since many years have passed since then, I don't quite remember the exact words the giant used. There is little doubt in my mind that the giant's original answers would be far more impactful than my retelling, regardless I will do my best to do the giant's words justice.–The giant answered that his size was not the result of genetics, rather the result of training, training which consisted of an unending routine of stretches. He would tug on every limb of his body, and keep pulling even when he thought he would tear his limbs off, only taking breaks for eating, sleeping, and relieving himself–and since you're probably wondering, yes, the giant was performing these stretches throughout his interview, just like I'm doing right now–however, what was truly incredible was the giant's reason for enduring this harsh training. He did it because one day he noticed that the sky was slowly edging closer to the ground. Someone had to be there to stop its decent, lest it destroy all life on this planet, and—as he so succinctly put it: 'If not me then who else will stop it?'"

"After this interview, practically the whole world labelled him as insane and laughed at the giant and his convictions. 'What a moron!' they'd say, 'He's nothing more than a paranoid madman!' reinforcing their belief that the giant was nothing more than a circus attraction–this recollection, even all these years later, still makes my blood boil–and they soon forgot about him. However, despite people forgetting him, the giant never forgot them."

"As for me, I felt an immense respect for the giant after hearing of his convictions and selflessness, and wished to meet him. Unfortunately, in those days I was but a coward and too timid to make the journey to meet my hero. Simply put, I was afraid. Afraid of the scorn I'd receive from my friends and family, afraid of making such a perilous journey, and most of all afraid that the giant himself would despise someone as puny as I was. However, I still carried on thinking that one day I'd finally gather the courage to talk to the giant. Unfortunately, that day never came and the giant–my eternal hero–died of old age."

"I remember the day I first learned of his death as if it were yesterday, I'd never felt so pathetic in my entire life. I doubt the regret I feel from never meeting my hero will ever fade. Even when I'm nothing more than a rotting skeleton, that miserable feeling will still remain. Though at the very least, in my anguish, I gained the motivation to finally see my hero in person, albeit as a corpse. His immense size made any effort to lay his body to rest nigh impossible, which is why–even now–you can see his bones resting in the exact same spot where he expired so long ago."

"Upon seeing the remains of the man I so admired, I became terrified. 'Who will protect us now?' I thought. I spent weeks living in terror of what would become of the world, but I eventually remembered the words the giant had said all those years ago. I realized then that I didn't just want to respect the giant from afar, I wanted to be like him. I wanted to devote myself wholeheartedly to one singular purpose and do my utmost for the sake of others. I resolved to take up my hero's mantle and start performing that man's same routine of stretches in order to hold the sky in place as well. Up until that point I was an unremarkable man, merely drifting aimlessly from one half-baked resolution to another, but thanks to my hero I finally found my goal: to stand among the clouds, higher than anyone else, and protect the world. Even though in the end I'm not even half the height of my role model, I'm proud that someone like me was able to get this far."

"That's how I became the man I am now. Now—if you don't mind me asking—why are you so curious about me that you'd listen to this long story?"

I give him a perplexed look, "Isn't it obvious?" I ask, "It's because I want to be like you."

He stares at me, shocked, he can't believe what I just said, "You… want to be like me?"

I nod my head, "That's right."

"…But why?"

"Well, seeing you work so hard every day, doing your routine with such dedication, it was something that really inspired me, I guess," I say as I sheepishly scratch my head, "I've been wanting to know why you've been doing this for a while. I think… I think for years I wanted to find something to do that I could really devote myself to—something I could really take pride in. You get what I'm saying?"

A wistful smile slowly creeps across his face, "I see…" he eventually says, "I never even considered that my efforts could ever possibly inspire someone. Thank you for talking to me. I'm glad I got to meet you before I die."

A chill runs down my spine, "B-Before you die? What do you-"

"-Good luck," he says interrupting me, "My spirit will pray for you to surpass me." Those were the giant's last words before collapsing to the ground, the impact from his fall reverberating for miles and miles.

 

[toothflick]

My Closet​

In my youth (I suppose I'm still in what would generally be considered my youth by most people, a more accurate phrasing would likely be to say "When I was younger," but alas I've already written "In my youth," as if I was a man of sixty instead of what could rather generously be described as a man of twenty) I had the habit of hiding in my closet.

It's a tiny little space in the corner of my room, stuffed with mountains of clothing that no longer fits me, board games that are missing countless pieces, random pieces of legos from a variety of different sets, broken hangers, and forgotten stuffed animals. It's been like this for as long as I can remember and it will likely be this way until the day comes where some unfortunate soul (an unfortunate soul that hopefully will not be me) will be tasked with cleaning it and bringing order to its chaos.

Despite the filthy nature of my closet (or perhaps because of it,) I would constantly escape there, deep into my mind in the one place in the universe that stood outside the border of reality itself.

In saying this, I probably give the impression that I was an abused child, running to his closet to escape the misery inflicted upon him by his family and classmates, but that wasn't the case. My parents have always treated me with kindness, my siblings with understanding, my friends with respect. Externally, there's nothing about my life that logically should have caused me to escape into my closet so often, and yet I constantly found myself hiding away there.

I believe it was my pride that kept me coming back there. Whenever I was overwhelmed by the stress of a test I had neglected to study for, the thought of an uncomfortable conversation that I had to have, or the fear of the unknown, there was nothing I could do but hide away there and cry. Crying away my shame in the one place in the world that was as wretched as I.

The legos and broken hangers that poked and prodded my huddled figure were my friends who I poured my soul out to, the outgrown clothes my witnesses, and the creepy clown face that resided on the box of one of the board games my judge, as I revealed all of my secrets and fears until I had nothing left to reveal.

For a cowardly liar such as I, there was no greater reprieve.

It was these recollections which caused me to poke my head in the closet tonight, so many years and experiences removed from those seemingly far away childhood experiences.

I couldn't feel the hangers and legos poking at me in the closet because I could no longer fit inside its tiny confines in the first place. I stare at the clown face which so tormented me in my youth and feel no particular emotions, the fact that this clown face caused me so much grief in the past now feels ridiculous to me.

An "adult" like me has no place in this domain.

Even if I could squeeze myself inside the closet, I doubt that I'd feel the same relief that I experienced in my youth. I'd merely feel as empty as I was before stepping inside.

An adult has no place to hide away from their problems, the only relief they can feel is in confiding with another person, and such a thing terrifies me.

As such, I lay down in bed in the house of my youth and silently stare at my ceiling, praying for salvation.

 

[toothflick]

A Contradictory Existence​

On my way to the park, I pass by a small patch of thorny brambles.

My hand inches towards it.

I need to grab those thorns and clench my fingers around it, letting it pierce and get stuck in my skin.

Just the thought of it strikes me as incredibly funny.

However, because I'm a coward, I quickly retract my hand before I actually touch the thorns and continue walking.

It's not the fear of pain that keeps me from acting upon my desire–on the contrary, I'm quite resilient when it comes to pain–but rather, it's the fear of the looks the people around me will give when they see a seemingly-normal person like myself suddenly do something so inexplicably deranged and foolish.

I wouldn't be able to bear such shame for even a moment.

I have no choice but to ignore what I really want, and just keep walking.

I shouldn't let it get to me, after all, I'll be in the park soon enough, and since it's nighttime I'll have the swingset all to myself and I can relish in the childish fun that I'm too scared to indulge in during the day when children are out and about.

-

I'm standing in front of the park, but I can barely stand straight anymore, my legs have lost all of their strength and the only thing keeping me from falling over is the fence that I'm leaning against.

My paradise has been invaded by a group of teenagers sitting and talking amongst each other on the swingset.

I can't go there now.

Not while they're there.

…but, maybe I could join them. Perhaps I could introduce myself and we can become friends and I could join them on the swings and be a part of their conversation. Maybe them being here is for the best, I'll be able to make new friends!

However, just as I'm about to take my first steps towards the teenagers, one of them looks at me for but an instant, and my heart immediately freezes over and my previous resolve vanishes like dust in the wind.

Bile rises up my throat and I feel like I'm drowning.

What idiocy on my part. Do I really think I'm smooth enough to just insert myself into another's conversation?

I start running past the park, in the direction of the library. I don't look back, because if I do and I find that the teenagers are still staring at me, I know for a fact that I really will throw up.

-

I don't quite know when exactly I reached the library, I just know that at some point I did. The second I lay my eyes upon the pair of benches in front of the building, I flop down onto the one closest to me.

I close my eyes and take slow, deep breaths. Eventually, my neck stops feeling like it's going to collapse in on itself.

Maybe, instead of running away when that teenager stared at me, I should have used that as an opportunity to approach. Perhaps, we could've struck up a fun conversation and become friends, as pathetic as it sounds for me to be so desperate for the acceptance of a bunch of children.

I guess I'll never know now though.

I realize that since I'm feeling better now, I know longer have any reason to be slumped over hugging myself anymore.

Actually, that's not true, I can think of a good reason. Maybe, just maybe, if I continue sitting around looking completely miserable, someone will feel bad for me and try to comfort me.

After an unbearably long amount of time of pointing my face at the ground, I finally hear footsteps approaching me.

Excited, I raise my head just enough that I can vaguely make out the figure approaching:

It's a guy in a blue t-shirt and jeans with a baseball cap on his head, he's looking in my direction, clearly intrigued.

It worked!

In a few seconds, he'll probably go up to me and ask what's wrong and I can explain to him how I'm lonely and we can start talking about our hobbies and then…

That's strange…

My legs are shaking, and my throat is tightening up again.

With every step the man takes towards me, my throat constricts more and more until I can no longer breathe.

I don't want to talk to him.

I don't want him to think there's anything even slightly wrong with me.

I don't want him to even look at me.

I'm scared…

I jump to my feet and start running as fast as I can.

I keep running for what feels like miles. I never look back.

However, even the sight of the people I'm passing as I run makes it impossible to breathe, so I eventually close my eyes.

This helps a bit, but it doesn't solve the problem completely, because I know that even if I can't see them, they're still looking at me.

I don't want that.

I just want to disappear.

Eventually, the inevitable happens and I trip and fall.

I know there are other people around me, and I know that they're staring at me–the person who suddenly tripped and fell–this knowledge causes my body to tremble.

At the very least, the knot in my throat is soon untied by a wave of bile that rises from my stomach past my neck, before finally exiting my body through my mouth in a fountain of filth.

I open my eyes to stare at the disgusting spectacle I'm creating. I can see the undigested chunks of my dinner sitting in the pool of my own vomit. The sight of it is incredibly funny to me.

It's funny that I'm staring at it, and it's funny that the people around me are staring at me staring at it.

I surrender myself to my impulses and press my face against my pool of vomit.

It has the consistency of a thick soup, with an uncanny lukewarm-ness to it however, it's not nearly as deep as I initially thought and as such I hurt my nose when I slam my face into the pool.

I think it's broken.

This too, I find incredibly funny, so funny, that I can't help myself from laughing out loud.

People are whispering around me. Although my eyes are blinded by the vomit sticking to my face, my ears are, unfortunately, perfectly functional.

I try to curl up into a ball to shield myself from the gazes I'm surrounded by. I know it's foolish to do so and if anything only serves to make myself into an even bigger spectacle, but I still do it regardless.

Fortunately, a brilliant idea of how to save myself from their horrible whispers pops into my head and I start slamming my ears into the pavement, the gravel tearing at the skin of my ear repeatedly until the pain becomes so great that I can no longer hear anything.

It feels nice to be free.

It's with an easy heart that I drift into a comfortable sleep where I'm able to forget about the world around me.