December 1st, Night
Cleveland, Ohio
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This is the lost time of our lives, like the lost frames of a camera in a blind spot, the time when we stray from our world, our senses, and our existence. When was this time spent? I wonder what I did during these intermittent and recurring periods of time, but I can't find an honest answer that captures what happened or even comes close to describing it, even if it's an inaccurate description. Then I follow this question with a heavy sigh filled with nothing but emptiness. Was this the sound of surrender? Perhaps, but I'm certain it was the sound of realizing that no clear answer will put an end to my constant questions in the wind. Does all this not matter? I don't think so.
Will shakes his hand until the ash falls to a few centimeters long, then puts it out in the ashtray after inhaling what remains of it in one long drag that almost causes him to choke. After he finishes doing that, he raises his hand to the waiter to indicate that he wants to pay. Minutes pass after that and he finds himself on his way back home, where his parents are impatiently awaiting his return. Their concern, sympathy, and worst of all, pity for him is a heavy burden on his heart and mind, but he doesn't move a muscle. All he does is greet them when he enters or leaves the house with some fake smiles that take a tremendous effort from him to draw on his lips without even trying to make them look real. All this just to make them feel that he is not lost yet, but that he is still alive and not dead, living life with them.
The winter cold was bitterly cold, but it seemed no one felt it, perhaps because their emotions were colder than winter itself. Someone had truly become a human oxygen cylinder, breathing without a sense of purpose, and not knowing when they would be able to stop.
A few minutes passed until he reached his home. He took out his keys, unlocked the door, and entered.
"Hello, Mom... Dad." he said without pausing to hear their response. Instead, he continued walking until he stopped in front of his bedroom door. He grabbed the handle, turned it, entered, and closed it behind him.
Moments later, his mother followed him inside. She opened the door to find him sitting in his white office chair on the right side of the room, opposite the door. He had removed his black leather jacket, remaining in his light, half-sleeved white shirt, wearing his circular reading glasses. He held a stack of papers in both hands, reading one while holding the others in the air, as if reviewing what was written on them.
"Will, is everything okay?" she asked cautiously, poking her head and half her shoulder in, but she received no response, as if he hadn't heard her voice or noticed her presence.
She pretended to cough lightly, hoping he'd notice her this time, but nothing changed. At that moment, she decided to approach him and touch his shoulder to get his attention.
"Oh... Mom, what?"
He finally responded to her attempts to get his attention, quickly raising his head with a surprised expression and bulging eyes, as if he'd been in a completely different world before his mother arrived.
"I've been talking to you for two minutes, but you're not answering."
"I didn't notice. Excuse me... Uh-huh, so what do you want?"
"I don't want anything. I just want to know how your day went. Did you enjoy work? Did anything new happen?"
" His mother asked nervously, not knowing what to say.
Will looked at her with the same blank stare that had become so familiar to his parents, then said, "Work... yeah, work... was good as usual, and no, nothing new happened. Is there anything else?"
He answered randomly as he sat up straight, as if he were making up an answer out of thin air. His mother looked at him with lost hope, then looked away toward the window as if to avoid tears, pursed her lips. She looked back at him and said, "What happened to you? Haven't you been able to get over him yet? It's been eleven months already, almost a whole year!! Please stop doing this."
"Don't you dare say anything more. Stop, or I'll leave. Please, Mom."
"I always respect your wish not to talk about it, but it's gone too far. Can't you see the effect all this has on us?" We are dying here in front of you every day we see you unhappy and sadness slowly devouring you, it makes us want to cry and regret forever, my son our hearts are squeezed to see you imprisoned in this misery for more days of your life, but it seems you do not realize the extent of the impact this matter has on everyone and especially on you, what sin did I commit that my son became a machine without feelings? Moving virtually and living for no reason other than to carry out what is dictated to it or asked of it by others, as if you fell into the abyss and do not want to return again, why? Why are you doing this to us my son? Why are you doing this to yourself? Please talk to us.
"Mom, please leave and close the door behind you? You've already crossed the line, but I'm too tired to even think about trying to respond to you. I don't want to talk about it. Please understand that… Good night." He said his last sentence after noticing his father standing by the door, looking at him and his mother. He then looked back at the papers in his hands as if nothing had happened, or he was just pretending nothing had.
"Well… I'm also getting tired of talking to you about this. I hope you're able to forget about him and move on with your life. This isn't life, my son."
His mother, a woman who turned fifty-five last week, concluded her speech with tears still lingering in her eyelashes. She then turned back to her husband, and they left in complete silence.
As for him, he continued to stare at the papers in his hand, specifically at a clear white spot, without realizing it. The word "forget" stuck in his mind. He continued to stare at it for a long time, only to be pulled out of his stare by the pain in his neck, which had suffered greatly from bending forward. He massaged it briefly, then grabbed his phone and found several messages from his colleague Regina, saying:
"Will, it's the first of December. I hope you had a great time."
"I'm planning to do some online shopping this time. I've heard there are a lot of great products that can't be found in retail stores."
"How's Bernard? I wish I didn't have a cat allergy. I'd spend most of my time with them."
"Oh, right, I almost forgot... Will, the new CEO is coming tomorrow. Make sure you wear that blue tie I got you last year for New Year's. See you tomorrow. Good night."
He responded with a (👍) symbol to the last message, ignoring the rest. Then he looked at the paper envelope in his hand, specifically the one with the phrase "Letter of Resignation" written in the middle. He walked over to the small filing cabinet next to his desk on the left, placed it there, and closed it. After that, he stretched a little and moved to his bed. Then he grabbed a small book with a brown cover and some cracks, by the American poet Allen Ginsberg, which had been left on his bedside table earlier. He continued reading it until he gradually fell into a deep sleep.
(End of Part)
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Part of me wished it was, and the other part wished it wasn't.
Your opinions.
I didn't proofread, so I apologize for any mistakes.
See you in the next part.