Mystery Suspense

Betrayed by the compliance to my conformity, as if by doing so I’d be contented. Rather, I do not know what “wonder” they speak of, or “joy”. Insidiously listening to those congregated at the water cooler, drenching their unsatisfiable mouths, contaminating the atmosphere with their vague minds. Complying to subside with this awfulness, it has begun to prove impossible. My every day involves a routine of hot air sweeping to mix with the dead, dry, cold air prevalent in here to brew the tornado of thoughts that I have about myself and those in here. Whether we all put forth a face of peace and tranquility, while behind all that, there is a torture of the mind existent in us, involving the constant reminder of the redundancy in our lives that we scavenge like a hunter and gather to find an escape of the cycle. Or maybe it’s just me. 

“Hey, there Tom”

Jesus, this woman. 

“Hey, their Rebecca, what are you up to?” I sarcastically said in a Sussy sunshine voice. 

She leaned in and placed her hand on my desk. My desk. Leaving her frog-like handprint on my desk. 

" We're going out for some drinks after work. Want to come? ” She said with her Mona Lisa-like smile. 

I thought maybe if I pretended to show interest but still said no, at least she wouldn’t feel bad. Not that she cared anyway. Probably asked out of obligation. 

“Maybe. Where are you guys going?”

“Near here, it’s called Hocus - Pocus”

“Oh, Hocus - Pocus. Maybe next time, I need to do a lot of housework anyway.” 

“Oh okay, well no worries” She did not hesitate to leave. 

  They don’t care for my company, much less do I think they care for each other, regardless of how well they know each other. No one likes to embark on this ship without any route alone. With others on board, we feel a bit warmer, a bit more a part of something even if there is no purpose for us being on here. We could be standing on the edge of an abyss, but if the path moved along we’d continue doing so because with numbers there is power. It’s an attempt to drown out the exhaustion that comes with this tiresome world. I sit in my seat every day. The cushioning of other objects is the only comfort I feel. Once my mind begins to speak, I shut it out like a kidnapper shuts out its victim with duck tape. The screams make it real, and I want to pretend that I can wake up from this one day. 

When I was a child, I remained attentive and observant to the rain that would flow into the drains after a big storm. It would indulge and disappear to then go somewhere. The mystery kept it interesting. Then I realized where it does go. I felt great grief. The more I learn, the more I realize, the less I wish to know. So I just try to walk through these poorly lit hallways, bleak offices, ignoring the decaying wallpaper or the leaks throughout the office, trying to grow numb to it more and more every day. I finished tapping my pen. I finished tapping my foot. I finished starring at my computer clock, waiting for the minute that I can leave. I prepare to leave. My day now begins. I get up in a heap, moving my long legs towards that narrow exit. I shut that hard wooden door with a passion, the most I’ll feel today. 

I walk out of the building, the sun meets my eyes. The sun scorches my eyes, disorientating them. I walk on this hot pavement towards my blisteringly hot car. I feel tempted to touch the body of my car. I softly place my hand on my car and feel the burning pain. I open my door with some excitement. I open my window to let in the breeze and let out this hot and congested air. I sense my car fill with an air of excitement. I feel compelled to drive into the sunset as they say in the movies and make use of this sudden surge of excitement. Soon the sun will fall, and the night will raise — the fun will begin. I drive out of the parking lot in the direction to a Mcdonald's Drive-Thru. I can’t have fun with an empty stomach. I pull up and order a Big Mac with fries and soda. I ask for ketchup at the window. They gave me 4 ketchup packets. I did not bother to ask for more. I stepped on the gas pedal and drove to my home. I looked at the car clock with a keen eye, It was 7, the night would soon fall. The speed bumps frustrated me. They reminded me of the barriers that exist to choice. I feel confined and that no day would come where those restraints would lift. Democracy does not exist. It’s an illusion that we continue to feed into with constant dispute, believing we are making use of our “voice”. Arguing whether blueberries or cherries are better, while the weeds devour our fruits. And if so Democracy existed, why must I be constantly be reminded that I have it? Shouldn’t I feel like I am already a piece in it? Well, since I have never felt like I’ve been, or ever will be, I have become chosen to take matters into my own hands. 

Driving past these communities, I see how kids innocently play in the streets of their neighborhoods. Kicking ball, hitting a car, running away for a bit, coming back. Until that, all is replaced for something else. Lurking at every corner is a passage towards a tomorrow we would have preferred to never reach. If We don’t measure properly, then things won’t fit or fix together. Asserting with our arrogance, we choose to believe what is best for us and others. Using our individuality as a means of addressing issues that number more than just one. In that way, we’ve never been able to properly measure. Somehow, maybe humans are capable of rejoicing in the error of measurement. Equally, how the works of Picasso with the distortion of faces and other objects, maybe the distortion of civilization, which we attempt to decipher brings us to our feet. I wonder when was the last time I kicked the ball? Remembering when I’d reel my leg back, forcing it through the ball, to then have It hang in the air, waiting to see where the ball would impact. That was my joy.

I drove up to the stop sign before my home and drove into the parking space. It was 7:25, and there was light outside still. The street lamps would soon come on. As I walked up to the door of my apartment complex I was met by Alfred. He lives in Apartment 3B. He handed me a flyer. 

“Hey there, Tom.” 

“Oh, Alfred, what are you up to with these flyers?” 

“Well, we have a meeting next week regarding some new projects that are set to commence. We just want to hear feedback from the community in regards to that”

“Oh okay. What projects?”

“Oh, just another building and potentially a community pool.”

“Well, thank you. I’ll see if I go"

I walked upstairs and went through the door to my one-bedroom apartment. Gliding through the room to get ready for this evening. I got in the shower and rested my head against the bathroom wall. Met my hands with my face, as water trickled down my spine. The beating of the water against my head soothed me. Running my hands through my hair, removing excess conditioner. I held the soap like a brick, placing it against myself, cementing it down. I washed away my sins. I’ve cleansed myself so I could now begin. I got dressed in all black. I saw my reflection in the mirror — illuminating my heart. My mind rested like rain washing onto a street, collecting itself to soon then be evaporated. I lit a candle. Its smell consumed the room. The smell of vanilla romanced with my nose. I danced my fingers through my pantry searching for a quick snack. I satisfied my miniature hunger. The time read now, 9:25. I gathered my objects and placed them in my bag, and I went out to hit the road once again. I sat inside my car and had a train of thoughts. Last week, I had learned that the company was responsible for the mischief of foreign workers in factories. Relentless exhaustion and suffrage had led some to commit suicide. Everyone at work continued laughing as if nothing. They continued with their lives, and so does everyone in the sight of atrocity. I scavenged through the files of the company at work and I managed to find the company owner's address. It was about an hour out from here. A window had been opened for me, and I wouldn’t question to crawl right in. To uphold ground on the Tyrants of time.

June 25, 2021 17:35

You must sign up or log in to submit a comment.


RBE | Illustration — We made a writing app for you | 2023-02

We made a writing app for you

Yes, you! Write. Format. Export for ebook and print. 100% free, always.