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"I'm Significant!" ...Screamed the Dust Speck

2 posts in this topic

"It's over."

The words traveled silently through the cold air. Dewey kept his eyes on the ground and listened to the sound of her footsteps trudging through the snow as she made her way away from him. There wasn't anything that needed to be said. Everything was conveyed through those two simple words. He didn't blame her though. This was an inevitability. In fact when they began going out four years ago he'd often make jokes to his friends about how long it'd take for her to realize her mistake. He was protecting himself from this very moment. This painful, sad moment when you're left standing there all alone to wallow in your own self-pity. He was ready for it, for the most part at least. Admittedly he was now struggling a little bit. There was this familiar pain in his chest that often appeared whenever he was left alone by himself and left to contemplate his own existence- this pain resurfaced now and seemed a little bit stronger than it had normally. It wasn't that big of a deal. This sort of pain was something he was used to, just a quick tightening of his heart and it'd relieve itself in no time. He kept such thoughts to himself as he coped with the heartbreak. Although he was certain this moment would come, the anticipation of its arrival only seemed to hasten it. It was only now that he began thinking of what he'd do with her provided he had more time. He'd like to take her out to a nice dinner, maybe just a casual stroll in the park and they'd talk about all sorts of meaningless, trivial things. Perhaps he'd, just one more time, enjoy the warmth she provided him when they were in bed and embraced each other to stave off the cold. Those moments were probably when he was happiest, he thought.

Pretty soon the sky began shifting into an orange hue. Dewey looked up and thought the sky looked a bit lonely, but that was probably just an inverted feeling turned outwards. He wasn't sure. He would often use big words to sound smart, but all in all, even he knew he was a rather stupid person. Messing things up on a minor scale was something to be celebrated for him- it was the major ones that he was so afraid of doing again. He was a real screw up actually. He'd often joke about how he'd miss if he tried to throw something at the ground because of how terrible at everything he was. It was a pretty funny joke to his friends, and somehow their amusement at his inherent lack of ability made him feel a bit better about his situation. Currently though, the earlier pain was somehow persisting, despite how hardened he was sure he had already made his heart. This wasn't much anyway. It was just a momentary sadness in his life, there would surely be worse situations farther down along the line. But somehow this aching feeling persisted. While earlier it just felt like a rather painful sting, it had since faded into a sort of small twinge that surfaced every now and then, like a broken bone that continued to ache past the initial pain of its fracture.

"It's just a temporary pain." 

He held this thought deep within him to try to lessen the grief. It always happened to work in moments of great emotional distress. Worse come to worst, if the pain became bad enough to the point where it was intolerable, then he could very easily commit suicide. There was a bridge that was rather high up nearby, the fall would surely kill him should be attempt it. He didn't have a gun, but he was rather certain he could just go to a shooting range and borrow one, but then aim at his head when he was there. It'd probably be a bit embarrassing though, he thought. Plus he'd ruin everyone's day, and he didn't like being too much of a bother. Perhaps a rope and a stool was the best way to go. It'd be pretty quick- and cheap too! But he'd have to buy it in separate areas or else someone would suspect something. He probably wouldn't be able to lie his way out if they did. Then again, he'd read somewhere before that sometimes the rope wouldn't snap your neck immediately, but instead it'd leave you hanging there, choking to death. That sounded pretty painful, and he wasn't really the kind of guy who liked pain. Perhaps that's why he wasn't very big on the idea of living. Well, it wasn't really his fault, he thought. He didn't necessarily want to be born. He never stood in front of God, if there was a God, and asked him that he be granted life. He was kind of just popped out into a world where he couldn't belong. Maybe in another life he could've lived a bit better. He'd hate to mess up again.


How long had he been standing there? The orange glow was soon receding into an ever encompassing darkness, and pretty soon Dewey was standing all alone in a blanket of snow in the dark. This would have probably been a great moment for a picture- a lone man standing in the darkness to contemplate the meaning in his life- but he happened to leave his camera and phone at home. He wasn't sure he needed it anyway, she only asked him that he go outside, a little bit of a ways behind his house, to tell him something. Had he known what she would've said, well he probably wouldn't have done anything different. If anything, he felt kind of relieved that she had ended it. At least this way he wouldn't cause her any more trouble. He was even pretty certain that this was what she was going for, she'd been pretty distant as of late anyway. He tried to muster up a smile for her, gracious that she'd finally decided to move on from this slow chapter of her life, but to his dismay his lips wouldn't move. It felt like a large weight was placed on his cheeks and they were dragging down his mouth into a mournful frown. He didn't want to, he just did. It'd been a while since he'd felt this sad, this empty.... This lonely. Sighing to himself and resigning to the isolation, he made his way back to his house. Although the snow wasn't very thick, every step he took somehow felt heavy, it was probably just the result of a long day.

It hadn't taken him long to get back home. Thankfully their meeting point was in walking distance, as they lived rather close to each other. In fact, it was only three fourths of a mile from his house to her's, and he could make it there pretty quickly in the summers if he ran. All that really separated them was the distance (his backyard was only limited by a fence that was rather unceremoniously erected there, which meant that it was old and worn out, and would likely fall if a stray animal so much as sniffed it the wrong way) and it was filled with practically nothing in between but grass and, occasionally, snow. All they ever had to do to meet each other was to walk a little ways in a certain direction until they saw houses, and so it became their little meeting spot on lazy afternoons when the two of them had nothing to do. It didn't happen often, but he liked to think that they were silently enjoying each others company whenever it did. Little things like that made him treasure their relationship, which was probably the reason why he felt so alone now. Funny, he thought. Almost like how your life flashes before your eyes before you die, it seemed every nice moment they had between them was resurfacing now that it was over. It was a strangely somber feeling, marked only by how empty he began to feel. It didn't hurt anymore, but it felt as though he was no longer whole. Perhaps the earlier pain was just the hole re-emerging from its slot. It was never filled anyway, just a light veil was placed over it that made him forget about it for a while.

He opened his back door, carefully closing it so the wood wouldn't crack due to the low temperatures. He took off his boots and headed to the couch, sitting down and looking at a cup of coffee which he'd left behind. Beside it was his phone, which had turned itself off from inactivity, and a magazine for something he didn't really care about. He noticed he did that more often in the last few days. He'd pick up a leaflet or some kind of article and read it despite not really being interested in it. He was probably just trying to cure his boredom, but sure enough it'd always come back with the same force as it always had. He recalled a joke he'd made before about being unsure whether he was depressed or bored, because he didn't want to do anything, but there just might not have been anything to do. He'd repeated the joke over so many times that it'd become a bit stale, but regardless he'd often think of the phrase whenever he was sitting around doing nothing. Much like the current situation. "Anaphora?" He tried to recall the name of it. A small phrase that expressed a deep underlying truth. He had watched a video on it, but all he knew was that it begun with the letter "A," and so he spent the next ten minutes or so trying to remember the word. All he did know was that anaphora was not the term he was looking for. "Aphorism." He said aloud without realizing it. There was this strange sense of accomplishment that filled him despite being nothing more than a trivial task. Little things like this seemed to clutter his day to day, and every morning until night was just a plethora of mental games he'd play with himself before going back to sleep. Currently, this was what happened to cheer him up, however little it might've been. As long as he could distract himself for another month or two, he was happy. It was when he was left alone to do nothing else but contemplate his life were the moments when he felt so insignificant and so useless that death would've been a favor to him. And so he continued living for a little bit more until the night finally took over the earth. Then he simply succumbed to the sweet embrace of sleep and nonexistence.


WC: 1808

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Dewey eyes were glued to the ceiling. He was fairly certain he was looking at the ceiling at least. He wasn't entirely sure, though, it was too dark to tell. In fact, it was too dark for him to know whether or not he was closing his eyes or not. It was probably midnight or maybe a little bit past that, then. He wanted to check, but in honesty, he wasn't actually even sure if he was opening his eyes. For all he knew he could've just been dreaming still, conscious only through a dream. That thought annoyed him. He rather enjoyed the act of sleeping precisely because of the fact that he didn't have to be conscious through it. It was like a temporary death, and as morbid as it soundded, the biggest disappointment of sleep is that is was temporary. He rocked his head to the left. Still nothing but an all consuming darkness clouded his vision. Was this how blind people felt? It'd certainly been an interesting situation, no doubt, but it wasn't very practical. He supposed that's why they're considered handicapped. The obviousness of the thought slipped his mind as he was thinking about it. He spent a couple more minutes contemplating the idea of blindness, deafness, and various other physical defects in order to keep his mind occupied. There wasn't really any substance to his thoughts, but as long as they kept him busy he was fine.


"I suppose if I was to be disabled, I'd rather be blind, though." He said after careful consideration and deliberation. He had thought that he'd rather not go deaf because he quite liked music. He wasn't very keen on the idea of being mute because of a certain line he'd heard that terrified him for some reason. The line was (he remembered vividly, owing to how strongly it impacted him) "I have no mouth, but I must scream." It was on a video about this small game by the same title, but the thought of such a torment messed with his fears. He rather liked being able to scream in times of great distress. If he was unable to let it out every now and then, then he'd likely off himself by now. He likened the process to that of a balloon, should it be filled with too much air (stress) then it would pop. It you let some air out every now and then, then you could probably postpone the popping by a fair amount. He stopped for a moment after thinking about that. What was he on about again? He tried to retrace his steps and figure out what the initial thought was, before remembering the idea of being mute and figuring out why he'd chosen blindness. If he was blind, then all he would miss out on was the beauty of the world. That wasn't much of a problem, well to him it wasn't. A fair amount of his troubles stemmed from the fact that he wasn't necessarily the most attractive man in the bunch, so whenever he saw something beautiful, he felt a strange envious resentment. Even for little things that he found to be gorgeous, like a blooming flower, a small puppy, generally anything that attracted one's eyes was reason enough to be jealous. If only something could ever look at him with the same zest, the same attraction, the same feeling of admiration that comes from looking at something pretty. Instead he was given the face of an old man despite the fact that he was only 23. He had bags upon bags under his eyes, (a result of genetics and not sleep deprivation, which he, oddly enough, also happened to have) a sickly pale skin tone that many believed to the result of albinism or not going out, and a very prominent light blue hue in his eyes. Even his former girlfriend described his face as a reanimated corpse before. He agreed, owing largely to the fact that he often thought the same thing everytime he gazed upon a mirror.


Thinking about it now, he actually hated everything that revolved or even remotely touched upon the image of beauty. It was only natural. He, so disgusting and rancid that even the slightest gaze of him would haunt one for years, absolutely despised the idea of attractiveness. He was its antithesis. A human being so unnaturally formed that one could place him into a zoo and still find him to be the oddest of the bunch. He wasn't human. He had the mind and the heart of one, but his body always suggested otherwise. He was too skinny, too meek, and much too bleached to even be considered one of them. He stood on the edge of humanity, and for whatever reason always treaded lightly in fear that someone would spot him invading their sacred grounds. He was a stain on what had been, at least thus far, a rather fair civilization. He probably wasn't the only one who thought this way though. Sometimes he would daydream of a group of people, much like him, who haven't lost their way but simply weren't part of that particular herd to begin with. He'd imagine a small society, probably not even technologically advanced, but full of people just like him who couldn't fit into the "norm." He wouldn't even mind how primitive it was. No amount of convenience could ever substitute the feeling of belonging and place. That's all anyone had ever wanted, wasn't it? That's why he got a partner in the first place. Granted, it was she who made the first move, apparently mesmerized by the strange look in his face, but he accepted likely due in part by the feeling of loneliness that had engulfed him years before. She was just a means for him to cure this lifelong symptom that only increased upon getting together.


It wasn't like they didn't have good days, though. For the first week or so, everything was fine. They were so in love that they kissed at the end of the first week, which was something Dewey recalled being incredibly shocked (but admittedly happy) by. From then on, though, she seemed to have lost interest. She became distant and the two only ever really talked when they were alone together. They didn't stay for long. She had a promising future as a writer and Dewey was still working at a supermarket down the street. They enjoyed each other's company when they were alone, (well, he did at least) and the two only very rarely went out to do something. Those were rare occasions, as he had to be very careful in scheduling a time when she wasn't busy and not tired from her work. She still loved him during those times though. He was sure of it. Although he spent a fair amount of time agonizing over how she was doing and how to cheer her up, she was always capable of helping herself, but often felt the need to reassure Dewey that she had not stopped loving him. She was sweet, and Dewey was madly in love with her. Far more in love with her than she had ever been with him. This often made him anxious. His worry wasn't an unfounded matter either, in fact she had told him rather bluntly that she had been attracted almost entirely by the fact that she reminded him of Holden Caulfield. They both wore hunting hats, and he apparently had this look in his eyes that drew her in. It was quite possibly the only time he'd ever been proud of his looks, but upon the realization that he could barely hold a conversation with her, he began to hate anything he'd ever once seen as beautiful. His looks were but a veil to the chasm underneath, and she would no doubt be disappointed upon realizing what kind of man he was. This, for certain, was the root cause behind the lagging of their relationship after their first week, and he could never really forgive himself for that. Even now, he could barely stand looking at pictures of her without feeling guilty. He had misled her into staying with a man who bore no real substance simply by having a face that did. Since then, he had a significant amount of trouble liking anything even remotely attractive- there was certainly nothing more underneath.


His alarm went off. The buzzing sounds didn't wake him up any more than he had been, and simply functioned as a nuisance. He looked over to his phone which was now rumbling with far more life than he had left in him, and extended an arm to turn it off. A few taps in a few places was all it took to silence the noise. He'd repeated this process over so many times that he didn't even have to look in order to do it, regardless of the phone's orientation at any given moment. Then he grabbed the phone from its place and checked the screen. It was 6AM. Looking out at the window, which was now only very dimly lit by his phone's screen, he noticed that it was still pitch black outside. If he hadn't known any better, he would've probably believed it to be midnight and drift off back to sleep. Such was the problem with places like this, he thought. It was only a few moments ago that he was wondering if it really had been midnight, too, but upon further examination began to wonder how long he'd actually been thinking. He'd never know. He didn't check his phone to find out when he awoke, so he wouldn't have anything to compare. It didn't really matter, but he'd be lying if he said that he didn't feel a little proud about thinking for a few hours straight. It sure felt like he did, at least.


WC: 1657

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