No happy endings

Everyone is working. The clacking of keyboards fills my ears with a dullness I can’t seem to get rid of, though I’ve tried for years. It makes the whole world a tiny place. The feeling minimizes your vision, until the only thing you see is smudges and blurry lines where people are. All the faces melt together, creating dead eyes and sad lips; curled together in an expression of indifference. Emotion is where they get you. Morale hasn’t been a concern of ours for a long time. A fake smile -stretching and painful -is the only thing I can manage. It’s my life boat in this sea of copiers and clipboards. But I don’t complain. How can I? It’ll only hurt things.

I step off the subway with a grunt. The old man ahead of me smiles. “Are you alright dear?”

His eyes are just wispy trails of smoke; I can’t tell what colour they are. I straighten up -giving her a sweet smile. One I’ve perfected for two decades. “I’m fine, sir, thank you.”

I walk with my head held high so he doesn't notice my mood. My black coat swishes with each step I take up the dirty stairs. Yellow bands stretch from one end of them to the other. It glows in the dark; it assists drunk partiers in the early hours of the morning. They stumble out of the station, bottles and shoes in hand. I shudder at the thought of sharing a city with them. As I reach the daylight, the came feeling comes over me as every other day of the week for 22 years. Dread. Dread because now I’m going home. Unclear figures slip past me, going to their awaited destination. If they’re lucky, they have a walk after they get off their stop. My apartment is right next to this station. I turn right and groan. This day is going to have the same ending.

“Hi Leslie!” Bash waves. She’s the security guard here. Her nickname is ironic, considering her flitty appearance. She shines as bright as a crystal to me. Her uniform is wrinkled from sitting in the same position for hours. I can sympathize. At least she gets to walk around the lobby at lunch. She’s a person who always seems like they're doing something suspicious; from their shifty glances to their on-the-edge posture. Her eyes are an amber brown that would be warming if I fully trusted her. Which I don’t. She’s probably ten years younger than me; in her thirties. Yet to be fully crushed by life. I wave back. “Hello. How are you?”

She gives me a detailed retell of her day. I pretend to listen while slowly shifting towards the elevator. My black shoes squeak on the mopped floor. Her voice is a droning I yearn to eliminate. My hand fumbles for the elevator button. I close my eyes to block out reality. To block out Bash. I walk backwards into the elevator and press the ‘close’ button. Bash doesn’t notice. She won’t for 10 minutes.

 The elevator is filled with mirrors. I hate it. I hate seeing myself. I hate seeing my wrinkled hands. I hate knowing my cheeks are that pale. My hair is greasy and sticking to my forehead. When someone is described, they always tell you about the colour of their eyes, hair, and skin, and then the size of their feet or their height. Nobody listens to those. You need to tell what those features have been through. I’ve had a boring life of suffering. How can one have both? It’s easy. Become the branch manager at a firm selling useless products. Spend every day typing out reports and firing the lazy workers. It’s not boring for others. They have those getaways; fishing or camping or just going out for the night. I have cramped fingers and one tiny window in my office. If you do what you love, you never work a day in your life. If you hate what you do, you live forever and fall asleep with a piece of you missing. The most exciting parts of my day are my nightmares. I say a prayer for nightmares every night. It sometimes comes true. It gets my heartbeat up. For a brief, shining moment, my life has colour. Then it’s gone. I write it down so I don’t forget. I read them on especially lonely nights. The elevator door dings, and I step out.

The click of my apartment door unlocking is a miserable sound. It swings open. I have a one-bedroom place. A tv is in the corner. Books are scattered on the kitchen table. My bedroom and bathroom are to the left. I don’t go into them. A lasagna my mom cooked is sitting in the fridge. I don’t put anything away. I throw my coat and bag on the floor. MY shoes are kicked off hap-hazardly. I go over to the couch and sit down. The remote is on the coffee table. Picking it up, I press the ‘on’ button. My head is pounding. I feel the tear well in my eyes. I let them come. I don’t sob, just stare straight ahead as I cry. The sound of the television is muffled. I’m not sitting on my couch. I’m sitting in a room made of black. My eyes are shifting to see if light is anywhere. It’s not. I’m alone. I will be until the day I die. I lean over and start sobbing. The ragged breaths hit me hard. The emotions I’ve kept inside me all day explode. If I got up and looked out my window. I’d see hundreds of dots making their way through town. Some of them have lives they want to live. Some of them perk up at the sound of their name. Maybe some are like me. Maybe some know the pain of everyday life. Maybe some understand that happy endings aren’t for everyone. That’s what hurts. I’m not alone. I wish I was. I wish no one else ever felt like this. No one should. We’re all valid. But I’m not feeling it. And it’s my fault.

In the beginning, I’d go with others to hang out after office hours. I was genuinely who I pretend to be now. I met someone. That someone had a nervous habit of picking their teeth when they were nervous. That someone hated walking. That someone was mine. I got married. We were happy for 13 years. I was with the person I loved. I would hold their hand. I would laugh with them. I would try to make romantic surprises. But then that person was gone. Whether they left or died, how and why, isn't important. It’s my fault nonetheless. It was all a hazy dream. I couldn’t tell fantasy from reality. I stayed later to work. I gave our dog up for adoption. I never saw anyone again. They’re all just pieces of a puzzle that don’t fit. I’m nothing more than a broken cardboard box. That’s the only way I can describe myself. I clutch my chest and let out a raspy sigh. Life hasn’t treated me fairly, but it rarely does anyone. I blink and put my head back. I considered doing it, like every other day. But I’ll stay. I’ll keep breathing. I’ll get up tomorrow and clean this mess. It’s gotta be worth it in the end. Right?