fog

When this was the weather, being asked to write a story wherein the weather mirrored a character’s emotions was simply too easy. Fog was practically used more often as a metaphor for emotions than as a weather phenomenon at this point. Human beings even have machines that make fog specifically for the atmospheric effect said weather creates at concerts and theaters. But this was no human created fog. It was light and saturated the air, made seeing distances impossible, made the confused angstrom of emotion all that much worse.

 So yeah, saying the weather mirrored his emotions was too easy. The weather both created and mirrored his emotions, which he would be unable to put to words even if there was a gun to his head. Although, a gun to his head would change his emotions pretty significantly, as currently the stressors in his life were not nearly that immediate or able to be described. They were water vapor in the sky of his existence, fogging up his perspective without actually being anything important individually. Nothing felt important individually, not as he walked through fog.

When fog morphed to rain, the mood was no longer mirrored, as our protagonist still felt made of fog, felt more metaphor than metaphysical, felt the numbness of his hands match the numbness of his emotional state while knowing that was a very bad sign, a sign he should have taken his gloves out of his pockets minutes earlier. Whereupon before he was feeling like fog while staring at fog outside the window of the gray office building he was employed at, he was now currently part of the scenery, of the cityscape, a factor in compressing the snow beneath his feet and cracking ice under his weight. He may not have felt real, but he was.

At work, he neither felt nor was real, but rather simply left to rot in an office, half the time his boss leaving him without work entirely, a problem many overworked employees dream of. Be grateful, he tried to tell himself, but he couldn’t muster up goodwill towards the bland sterility of being a real adult. He missed being unemployed, touting out his Bachelor's degree like a badge of honor and his occupation as one of shame. Now his parents told everyone what he did as though he had any real part in the good work the organization he worked for did, as though he wasn't one screw in the machine of the organization, or not even a screw but a staple, something that if removed would be unlikely to be missed. 

He could see himself stepping out in front of a car in his mind's eye, the impaired visibility warping drivers' vision, attention rarely on pedestrians in the best of times to begin with. He didn't, waited far longer than anyone else had, having no reason to hurry home nor any fear of darkness. The weather mirrored his emotions, after all - a dark setting for a dark mood. He pulled his hood higher over his ears, tucking his chin into the zippered area of his jacket.

Eventually he had to cross the street, so he didn’t look anywhere but to the other side while he did it. Eventually, he finally, finally made it to the warmth of the train station. He unzipped his jacket and just relished the warmth and regaining feeling in his hands. The train station had many people in it, with three different trains within ten minutes of the station.

QThe darkness outside had hurt his already gloomy mood, but just as the weather outside had negatively impacted him, the brighter lights of the train station elevated his mood, as did the sight of a pigeon bobbing its head as it pecks at crumbs on the cement floor. The man watched the pigeon, the fog of his mind still shielding him from awareness of just how long it had been since he left work. Pigeons didn’t work, and the man felt himself smile for what felt like the first time in ages as he watched the pigeon go about its pigeon business. The screeching of a train startled the man back to the world of humanity, wherein he saw it was not yet his train and continued watching the pigeon, keeping an eye out until the train he needed arrived.

Then he hopped on the train, squeezed between strangers, the fog in his head keeping him from caring about that, about the arm above his shoulder, violations of personal space were obligatory in the city, so he waited, feeling the vibrations of the ground beneath him. He had his eyes closed, knowing he'd hear the stop name he needed. Indeed, he stood and left the train once the train began approaching his stop, uncaring that he was not the only passenger leaving the train at his stop. They could leave behind him. He just needed to be out, and he was. He was back in the cold rainy outdoors, only he could walk home from the train stop. He was almost home.

 He walked into home, his parents having been waiting for him, dinner on the kitchen table. He avoided their questions about how work was, eating, finally feeling some form of warmth for the first time in hours, maybe all day. He was so tired, his parents could see the exhaustion radiating off of him, and ceased their typical annoying questions. Eventually, finally, our protagonist was able to take a nice hot shower, almost the opposite of the freezing rain he had been stuck in on the trek to the train station, and then he just needed his pajamas. Just change into pajamas, then he could let the fog consume him whole.

Then he could finally rest, return to dreams where weather didn't exist. Maybe tomorrow would never arrive. Maybe it would return warmer and less intimidating than today was. Let tomorrow be better than today, our protagonist asked the universe, sinking into a much needed sleep.