An Inhuman Condition

These are a few pieces of flash fiction from the Blue Valentines lot that were off subject or unrelated.

Wayfaring

The taste was copper in the back of his throat. The winter rain uncovered smells long buried under snow; the thwishing sound of cars like mouthwash for the world. The cigarette felt fragile under thick gloves, and all he could see was the crisp night. Bundled under his jacket with lament, the two grew quite intimate. Times like these he felt like the worst man in the world.

He looked back on all the horrible things he’d said. There were no boundaries left to cross, no new territory, and no sacred things. He was bitter, hurt and projecting onto everything he touched. The stains piled upon expanding scars until it was time to leave. His world had grown too small. There wasn’t anything opaque in front of him. He could see through and knew it had to be cut away. Slash and burn; start again.

So many relationships he wished he could have saved. So many conversations never went the right way. For everything he knew about people, connecting with them was never easy. That last little inch was the only mystery left for him, and he needed some new faces to try again. It was simple probability. If he could try an infinite number of times, he was bound to get it right eventually. The notions of love and friendship were intangible; he could go through the motions, do what seemed right and hope for the best. Before they finished the puzzle, it would inevitably be thrown to the trash out of frustration.

He was funny; nobody could deny that. It was the sort of comedy that quickly turned a little mean if he was anxious. He would often make depressing jokes or laugh at tragedy. It was just a way to cope. He couldn’t hold them back. Stressed at work, facing myriad problems, he would try to get a laugh out of everyone thinking they could cope the same way. Instead he got a reputation for never taking things seriously. If only someone understood that his jokes were very serious, that they might be the most necessary part of him, he could have made the life work.

They always wanted him to change, and the joke got old. The way people gave advice drove him crazy. It was like there was some simple switch to turn on the happy. Just do this one thing magic thing you’ve obviously never tried, and it will make you feel better. Stop being negative. Start giving a shit. Turn a rock into water while you’re at it, and you’ll never be thirsty. Could other people actually change the way their mind interprets things? Could they look around at the way the world is and manage to see something less than repugnant? Talk about tunnel vision.

Maybe that was his problem. He wanted the truth, and he wanted something real. If fake things satisfied him, life would be easier. There was no doubt in his mind about that. He didn’t want to fake smiles for a job. He didn’t want to pretend that expensive cars and sneakers were important. He wasn’t willing to lie for personal gain, and he didn’t want to impress women. He wanted to be a real and raw, guttural dirge without sugarcoating it for the sake of polite, fucking, conversation. See the world for what it really is, count all the lies and try to be happy.

All the while he knew he was good. He was someone who could really listen to people. He tried to be helpful in any way he could for the people he cared about. He held himself under an ethical lens he would never see anyone else through. Whenever he was forced to do something that didn’t agree with him, the regret turned in his head for weeks. He tried to be nice whenever he could manage, and he tried to keep to himself when he couldn’t. Despite the awful things he said and people he accidentally hurt, he would never believe he was a bad person. Action should speak louder than words, right?

But no, they never did. They only saw the surface, the lie – a coping mechanism to make things interesting in a world that is small and cold and petty. It killed him that he could never make it work, find someone with the same mindcogs.

The highway gave him life anew, and maybe this monkey would write the comedy of errors.