The muffled weeping of his wife rang through the telephone. As he looks at her face through the glass, he notices the veins of her cheeks flush with blood. She is a thin woman, so most clothes look baggy on her; the telephone seemed heavy to her. Their eyes meet every so often when she is done blowing her nose. Why did you do it? She says in a shaky voice, trying to push out every syllable. Why did you do it! This time there is a hatred which emerges, a product of fear. I don’t know, he responds, a voice which betrays no emotion. It is fake, synthetic; something he feels that he is supposed to say, but really he knows the answer. She collapses on the table, her arms supporting her head, as if trying to control a river of her tears; the phone falls beside her. He knew she would never understand even if he had told her; the freedom and the flight. She is still trapped, her mind still bound, he thought. I may be the one in chains, but it is I who has felt true freedom, he reminds himself with such passion. For the first time in his life, he believed the words that came out of his mouth.
The building is tall and grey; a monolith. Despite it’s outwards appearance, it was a living organism. Much like our own bodies, it was filled with endless cells. Well dressed beetle looking people were hard at work. The clicking echoed throughout the floors, like the monotonous droning of a woodpecker in a forest. There he was, as normal as normal could be; Greyer than grey; completely and utterly average. It was a state of being which he was supposed to be content, a goal to be achieved. Yet he did not share this “pride” with the other beetles; deep within him something began to fester.
His eyes were as grey as the building; there was a deadness and emptiness to them. Whenever he tried to smile at others during family gatherings; Whenever he had to explain what he did for a living: it was always half hearted. This was something he never understood about himself. He was supposed to be happy, but he couldn’t summon a passion. He was a very dogmatic man; the world was black and white with no in betweens. There is a right and a wrong way to go through life; The most successful people take no risks. Sure it may be boring at times, but it was better than being a starving artist, he always joked to himself.
“Get a stable job to get set in the world”, he would always remind his children. “That way, you have the freedom to follow your passion”. Fifty two years into his life, he still clung to this distant hope.
And yet he remained typing his life away. Clacking away at the black keys which gave a satisfying feeling when pushed down; as if he were mindlessly molding clay in his hands. Within his mind, however, something was wearing down his thoughts. Something was growing, lurking within every thought. This unknown virus chewed at his brain till there was nothing left; leaving it raw and painful. But he fought this feeling because he had to keep appearances. His face gradually transformed, unreadable to the average person; yet deep within his stoic face contained a painful sore. A sense of emptiness began to grow, setting roots within his psyche.
He told himself that this pain was all for his family; a noble pursuit. Overtime, he looked forward to the paychecks when he got up in the mornings. But on his two hour long commutes to work, he found himself staring into the void which was his life.
After a night of drinking
He awoke to the vibration in his pocket. The sun was high in the sky, and very few shadows were cast by the trees. It took him a moment to realize that he was in his car on the side of the road. He began the wet feeling of vomit on his suit, the pungent smell overcame his nostrils. Suddenly he felt a sense of dread overcome him when he realized it was a work day. He pulled his phone out and scrolled through missed calls from his wife and his coworkers. He started the car and rushed to work.
The cushions were comfortable, naturally enhancing his posture. The blinds were pulled shut but light still managed to come through in the form of narrow white lines. The glass ashtray reflected light into his eye, making it hard to form the short figure of his boss. Cigarette smoke spun into the air, and when it blended with the afternoon light: it looked like flames.
You’re fired.
Something snapped. The frayed rope which had supported all his melancholy, all his pain, all his frustrations, ripped at the last fiber. He could not control the hatred which began to bubble inside him, the pure anger at the world. He imagined his muscles tensing so hard that his clothes began to tear; His knuckles became white as he squeezed his fists.
He doesn't remember how he got there, but he remembers his hands on his throat. The boss couldn't put up much of a fight against such intense passion. The man had never felt this alive in so long. With every blow of the stapler, he began to feel a deep sense of pleasure. Looking at the boss’s bludgeoned face made him orgasm. The feeling was so intense, that he could not recall experiencing it with his wife.
He felt as if he was in tune with the universe. His eyes were no longer grey, but were shining. A long lost strength came back to him. He was a tiger bursting free from it’s cage; a fierce and uncontrollable force of nature.
He smiled through all the screams, for he no longer needed to please others. He had broken free from the endless system of cogs and gears which was society. He was reunited with true freedom.
For the first time in his life; he had made his own decision.
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