Don't Mind Me

TRIGGER WARNING: CONTAINS THEMES OF DEATH AND LONELINESS, GUILT AND EMOTIONAL TRAUMA.

MAIN BODY OF TEXT

Monday

Marcus never saw the car that missed him by the narrowest of margins, the wind from its passing ruffling his coat. He stumbled backwards onto the pavement, heart hammering, as the taxi swerved back into the traffic on North Michigan Avenue without slowing.

"Don't mind me," Marcus muttered to no one in particular, straightening his grey suit jacket. Around him, the Chicago morning rush continued without pause, commuters hurrying towards the Red Line, tourists already consulting maps despite the early hour, delivery lorries navigating the narrow streets of the Loop.

He turned west on Randolph, taking the longer route to his office building. The direct path would have taken him past Grant Park, but Marcus hadn't walked that way in twenty-eight years. His feet knew the detour by heart—three extra blocks through downtown Chicago that added fifteen minutes to his commute.

The lobby of his office building on LaSalle Street hummed with Monday morning energy. Marcus nodded towards Jerry at the security desk, but the guard was absorbed in the Tribune's sports section, probably reading about the Cubs' latest disappointment.

At the lift bank, Marcus stood behind a group of people waiting for the next car. When the doors opened, they filed in, and Marcus watched as someone pressed fourteen, his floor.

His cubicle sat in the back corner of Brennan & Associates, exactly where he preferred it. The insurance office had a view of the Chicago River if you stood in the right spot, but Marcus's desk faced the interior—files, computer, coffee mug with the faded company logo, and a small succulent plant.

A young intern, Sarah, approached with an armload of manila folders. "Here are today's files," she said, dropping the stack onto his desk with a slight thud.

"Thank you, Sarah," Marcus replied to her already retreating figure, as he reached for the top file.

The day passed processing claims—a kitchen fire in Wicker Park, hail damage in Schaumburg, a fender-bender on the Eisenhower. Marcus worked with quiet efficiency.

At lunch, he ate the turkey sandwich at his desk, reading a paperback mystery novel whilst listening to the distant sound of construction from the building going up across the street.

At half past five, Marcus packed up and joined the exodus. He waited for a lift. The walk home took him through the evening bustle of downtown, where office workers headed to happy hour, commuters rushed for trains, and the usual urban choreography of a city winding down played out.

His apartment building sat on a quiet street in Lincoln Park, close enough to the lake that he could hear the foghorns on misty nights. Marcus climbed to the fourth floor, nodding to Mrs Henderson from 2B, who was juggling grocery bags and keys.

His one-bedroom flat was sparse but comfortable. The windows faced east towards the lake, and on clear mornings, he could see the water. In the corner next to his easy chair, on a small table covered with a white cloth, sat a shrine that Marcus had maintained since he was a boy. The centrepiece was a framed photograph of two boys: Marcus, ten, gap-toothed and grinning, his arm around his seven-year-old brother, Tommy. A group of small model cars whose paint had chipped and worn were arranged on each side of the picture.

On the wall above hung a framed newspaper clipping from the Inter Ocean, dated December 4th, 1898. The headline read "He Served with Kitchener" above an article about James Colfer, Marcus's great-great-uncle, who had distinguished himself in service to the Empire. Marcus had read the yellowed article countless times over the years, admiring the courage of a man who had served his duty with honour, who had protected others when it mattered most. Everything Marcus felt he had failed to do for Tommy.

Marcus heated a frozen dinner and settled into his chair.

"Another quiet day, Tommy," Marcus said to the photograph. "Well, except for almost getting hit by a taxi this morning on Michigan Avenue. The driver never even saw me. You know how they drive downtown."

He ate his dinner slowly, half-watching the local news. The anchor was talking about the mayor's latest initiative, something about neighbourhood development.

"Remember when we lived in Naperville? Mum knew all the neighbours. Different world out there in the suburbs."

Marcus had been the one going for ice cream that summer afternoon twenty-eight years ago. Tommy had followed him across the street, chasing after his big brother like he always did. The car had come too fast around the corner. Marcus had made it across. Tommy hadn't.

Tuesday

The morning routine was identical to thousands of others in Chicago. Marcus dressed in one of his five nearly identical grey suits and left his flat at exactly quarter to eight. The October air carried the first hint of the brutal Chicago winter to come.

He took Randolph again, his feet following the same detour they'd traced thousands of times before. Past the coffee shops filling with the morning crowd, past the construction sites that seemed to multiply monthly as the city grew upward and outward.

Deep in thought, Marcus noticed another commuter ahead of him—a man in a grey suit like his own, hurrying somewhere important. The man stepped off the pavement into the street without looking. Marcus, distracted and following the same path, stepped into traffic behind him. A taxi clipped Marcus, spinning him around and leaving him sitting back on the pavement, bruised and shaken. A small crowd gathered about twenty feet from where he sat. He could hear the taxi driver shouting in a thick Brooklyn accent: "He just stepped out into traffic. There was nothing I could do. He just stepped out..." Other voices called out, "Give him some room," and "Call 911." He was sure he recognised Beaumont from HR's voice in his distinctive Texan drawl, shouting "Y'all need to move back now, give us some room here!"

Picking himself up from the pavement, Marcus walked towards the gathering crowd around the unfortunate fellow commuter, but the crowd was already five or six deep, and he could only see the backs of heads and nothing of the man who had been hit by the taxi. Rubbing his sore elbow, he muttered, "Don't mind me, I'm fine."

At the lift bank, Marcus waited with a small crowd of coworkers. The conversation was the usual Tuesday-morning mix: weekend plans, Bears game complaints, weather predictions. Marcus listened without participating, comfortable in his role as observer.

Back at his desk, Marcus noticed Sarah making her afternoon rounds with the daily files. She approached his cubicle and stopped, her expression troubled, sadness perhaps. She pulled four files from her armful, hesitated while glancing at his desk, then put them back before moving away without saying a word.

Marcus had started to say, "Nothing for me today?" but she had already moved on. He could hear her subdued voice at Davidson's cubicle: "Here are today's files, Mr. Davidson."

Later that afternoon, he went to the break room for coffee. Janet from accounting was there, stirring sugar into her coffee whilst checking her phone. She looked tired, but then again, everyone looked tired on Tuesday afternoons in October.

"Afternoon, Janet," Marcus said, making his daily attempt at connection. Janet glanced up briefly, gave a distracted smile and went back to stirring her coffee.

"Don't mind me," he murmured as she headed back to her desk.

The rest of the afternoon brought a complex claim involving water damage in a Lakeview condo. Apparently, a pipe had burst during the recent cold snap, flooding three units. Marcus found the detailed work soothing, losing himself in the documentation.

When half past five came, Marcus joined the crowd waiting for lifts.

That evening, he heated his dinner and settled into his chair.

"Processed a flood claim today, Tommy," he said to the photograph. "Reminded me of that time the basement flooded back home. Dad was so mad about his workshop getting soaked. You helped me carry his tools upstairs, remember?"

Wednesday

The routine continued without variation. Same lift, same coffee, same desk. Marcus processed claims with his usual quiet efficiency—a kitchen fire, storm damage, minor accidents.

At lunch, he ate his turkey sandwich at his desk, reading his paperback mystery novel. The detective was getting closer to solving the case, following clues through the foggy streets of London. Marcus found the detailed work soothing, losing himself in the story.

When he reached the intersection on his walk home, Marcus found himself slowing. The park stretched out beyond the trees, paths winding towards the lake. Marcus stood at the intersection for several minutes, studying the familiar landscape he'd spent decades avoiding. The park looked smaller than he remembered, more manageable, but still, he couldn't make himself walk through those gates.

Same walk home, same nod to Mrs Henderson, same dinner.

"Quiet day today, Tommy," he said to the photograph that evening. "Watched the boat tours from the office window. I don't know why I stopped at the park entrance. I don't know why I couldn't go in. Remember when Mum and Dad took us on one of those boat tours when we first moved here?"

Thursday

Same lift, same coffee, same desk. Same sandwich, same mystery novel, same construction sounds. But when he reached the intersection on his walk home, Marcus found himself slowing again. For the first time in twenty-eight years, he turned and looked directly at the entrance to Grant Park.

Same walk home, same nod to Mrs Henderson, same dinner.

"I looked at the park today, Tommy, we had so much fun there," he said to the photograph that evening.

Friday

Marcus woke to the same grey morning light, the same distant sound of traffic on Lake Shore Drive. The routine was automatic: shower, coffee, grey suit, briefcase. Nothing felt different about this Friday.

When he reached the intersection where Randolph met the park entrance, Marcus stopped. He'd been taking the long way around for years, adding fifteen minutes to his commute to avoid this place. Today, for reasons he couldn't articulate, he was tired of the detour.

Today, he walked through the gates of Grant Park.

The park was quiet in the early morning, dew still clinging to the grass. A few joggers moved along the paths towards the lakefront trail. Marcus followed the familiar paths, his feet remembering the way despite the decades of avoidance. Past Buckingham Fountain, silent in the early hour, around the old oak tree where a woman sat reading, towards the bench where he and Tommy used to sit and watch the boats on Lake Michigan.

The bench was empty, worn by years of Chicago weather but still solid. Marcus sat down, feeling the weight of twenty-eight years settle around him. The morning sun filtered through the autumnal leaves, and in the distance, he could hear the sound of waves against the breakwater.

"I should have held your hand," Marcus said to the empty air. "I should have made sure you were safe."

The park was beautiful in the morning light, with birds singing in the trees and the distant sound of the lake providing a peaceful backdrop. Marcus felt something he hadn't experienced in years—a sense of rightness, of being exactly where he belonged.

He didn't notice when Tommy sat down beside him. One moment, Marcus was alone, the next his brother was there, exactly as he remembered him, but somehow older too.

"It's time to move on, brother," Tommy said gently.

Marcus turned to look at his brother, feeling no surprise, no shock. The taxi hadn't just clipped him; he had been thrown twenty feet down the road and had exhaled his last breath as the crowd had gathered around him.

"I've been waiting for you," Tommy said.

"I know," Marcus replied. "I've been waiting too."

Light like sunrise seen through honey began to envelop them, warm, golden and peaceful. Marcus felt the weight of guilt and loneliness lifting from his shoulders.

"Don't mind me," Marcus whispered, but the words felt different now. Not an apology for existing, but a gentle farewell.

The light grew brighter, and they were gone.