Memories: A Collection of Short Stories and Things

Dearly Departed

It was strange that he found himself most alone when out and about in public. He was surrounded by people who were enjoying themselves, wearing carefree masks of happiness and he either couldn't see the mask, or didn't care enough to analyze them further. In a world of casual talking and laughter, he had yet to adapt from his past life and so he felt rather sheepish. He was forced—or rather extremely pressured—to forget about it, to move on to "Bigger," and "Better," things.

At first he didn't think much of it, moving out to this new place and doing the work that was presented to him. But the more he debated it, the more bizarre he considered the world around him. Although it was technically a choice to move from his home town and do this work, he didn't feel like it was the choice he would've made, had he been free from the hopeful gazes of all those around him. Often times he would sit at his desk, and although it didn't look like he was doing much of anything, the look in his eyes told a different story. It was a gaze of contemplation, constantly asking himself if this was really what he wanted.

One day, walking back to his living quarters, he had to stop himself and wonder if the life he had been living was all a dream. It didn't feel like he was living, he was getting no fulfillment from his actions throughout the day. He would work eight, sometimes twelve hours before being able to head home, but as he trudged forward down the street, he had to ask himself if it was real. It was very much a like a night time hallucination--he felt as though everything he had done was inconsequential to the world at large--he felt like it had no meaning.He only followed this path because it was expected of him, not because he particularly wanted to. And because of that, he would often question his reality and ultimately question whether or not he should continue with this life.

After an hour of two or indecisiveness, he would open the desk drawer and take out the letters from her. Although she was no longer living, reading back through them made him feel like she was still very much alive and as much in love with him as ever. He would reread the compliments they gave each other and the light of his self esteem stood back up momentarily as his mouth formed a slight grin.

He wasn't happy, he knew that. He wasn't particularly depressed (although some days were worse than others), but he certainly wasn't thrilled with his position in life. Looking through these letters helped him to get along, like a nurse smoking cigarettes. He knew it wasn't a good habit but he enjoyed doing so and perhaps it relieved some of the stress.

Soon enough he would get to the picture he had of her. It was damaged from the house fire—her once smiling face had now seemed to make a casual stare into the unknown. Although they both shared this look of unknowing, they would never be able to see each other again. His low self worth made him wonder if he would ever get a chance at true love like he had with her ever again. He would then put the documents neatly back into the drawer and hold his head in his hands, trying to convince himself that the work he was doing was worthwhile--that it would ultimately lead to a happy life--that it would all get better eventually. But no matter what he told himself, his cynicism always got the better of him.

"All anyone cares about is money. There's no way that this is amount of work and stress would ever lead to a happy ending."

"What are you going to do then? What's your plan for the future? If you have such a strong opinion on the matter, surely you must have a resolution to the problem."

"I don't know. I just want to be free to make my own decisions, not have everything decided for me!"

"Then why did you agree to come here to the Big City? If you didn't want to be in this line of work, then why-"

"Because I was afraid of what they would think! Everyone back home would be ashamed, and you know it!"

"Oh, come now, I'm sure they'd understand."

And so he argued with himself, neither side winning, both agreeing to disagree. By this point he was usually standing in his room, looking at himself in the mirror, disgusted at what he saw looking back. On the outside he did what was expected of him while his true ambitions never saw the light of day. And for that he hated himself.

It wasn't just her that had departed, it was his whole past. But just like her, his past continued to influence his present. It was an odd balance of wishing to return to the past, but also wishing to move past it. It was as though he had some kind of addiction to reminiscing, some chronic wistfulness that held him back from succeeding in life.

Perhaps, he thought, if he could forget his past he could venture forth to become the individual he wanted to be, free from any societal pressures to live up to. By now he would be wandering around the room, stopping at the window and looking down to the street below.

"I wanted to be an artist. Not wasting my time doing work that only bores me."

"There's too many artists in the world. What makes you any different?" His mind would go blank for a second, searching for something, anything to answer back with.

"I'm not..." He would shut the window curtains and go to bed. It was only nine o'clock but he didn't feel like staying awake any longer. His thoughts were heading to the darkness once again and he would rather not deal with them. But he knew he couldn't run from himself. His heart physically ached. "What's the point of doing work if you don't love it?" He sat and thought this question over carefully as he changed his clothes and brushed his teeth.

"Well, that's it then. I'm not going tomorrow." He had decided before falling asleep. But in the morning, he did go to work. He did his job in a quality that suggested it was his first day, and after eight hours, he returned home to wish again. Wish that he had the courage to live up to his words—had the courage to live his own life. He would think about his past and argue with himself some more, but he would never act on any of it. He would go on to move up in his career path and be successful by society's standards, but he would never truly be happy--that was a fact he knew all too well.

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