A FACELESS MAN

 

The man looked out his window and saw a car ride down the street.  He watched it ride along the street until it disappeared.  It has vanished from his realm of awareness.  He forced it from his mind.  Its existence has been erased from his mind.

 

He turned away from the window; stared at the wall.  It was barren.  There were no pictures or paintings.  It was empty like the feeling he felt in his heart.  He tried to make something appear on the wall.  He wasn’t even capable of hallucinating images like a drug addict.  He had no fuel to add to his furnace.  The heat was about to go out and he knew it.

 

The wall spoke volumes through its pale green silence.  He listened carefully.  Nothingness pervaded the room.  The wall rudely reminded him of the emptiness.  He’d have looked in the mirror but he was afraid he wouldn’t have a face.  He wanted to look but couldn’t muster the courage.  He instead chose to stare at his sullied Nike sneakers:  the same kind all his friends had.  He needed a new pair.  He’d have to get out to the mall some weekend.

 

He laid down on the bed.  It felt like a motel bed.  He had slept on plenty of them.  He always got a bad case of déjà vu whenever he walked into a motel room.  They were all the same; simple faceless rooms suited for a simple faceless man like him.  Now even his own bed had lost its personal feel.  It became another hard uncomfortable mattress.

 

It was the same as before.  When he was young, there was something special about his own bed. There was a certain security he felt.  He reached a point where there was no security left.  Back in the day, he could always retreat to his own bed.  He could just lay down and get under the covers and forget about everything.  His bed was warm and safe.  It was his escape from all his problems.  Now his problems went to bed with him.  He tossed and turned on the impersonal mattress and suffered anxiety attacks.

 

He felt contempt for his bed.  He dug his heels into its coils.  It betrayed him.  When he needed its safe solace; it became hard like a rock.  His pillow felt like a hardened sofa cushion.  He punched it several times.  It was useless.  Even his pillow had turned against him.

 

He got up and kicked the wall.  It silently bitched and nagged him about his impotence.  He couldn’t do a damn thing about it.  He tried to imagine his ex-wife’s face on the wall.  She wouldn’t appear.  The bitch wouldn’t ever give him a break.  It was just as well.  He couldn’t even picture her in his mind anymore.  Maybe it wasn’t worth the effort.  She ran out on him before.  Why did he even want to think of her?

 

His boss was the next face to pop into his mind.  He’d have spit on that image if it appeared on the wall.  At least his ex was prettier.  He tried to erase the faces from his mind.  It was useless.  If he wanted to picture someone, he couldn’t.  If he wanted to eliminate an image, it remained.

 

He decided to walk out to the kitchen for a glass of water.  It provided him with a change of scenery.  He walked out; the rooms were all the same.  He got into the kitchen; ran the water in the sink.  It tasted like city water.  He couldn’t finish the glass.  It didn’t surprise him.  He never finished anything he started.  He was a halfway man.  He got halfway and never advanced further.

 

He was sick from the water.  It’s tastelessness was too intense for his taste buds.  It tasted like his life:  bland.  He couldn’t stand it.  He tried to spit the taste of facelessness from his mouth.  It wouldn’t work.  It was indelibly stamped in his consciousness.  He searched the fridge looking for something to cover over the bland taste in his mouth.  Nothing interested him.  He would just have to live with it.

 

He closed the fridge.  He glared at it momentarily; despising its inability to fulfill his needs.  He felt like kicking it.  He didn’t.  He couldn’t muster the anger.  He just let it pass.  He turned his back to the fridge.  He stood still for a few moments.  It was worthless to just stand there.  He headed back toward the bed room.

 

He walked along the hall.  The darkness didn’t bother him anymore.  The light hadn’t been changed in so long.  He knew it wouldn’t get done tonight.  He wasn’t up to it.  He promised himself he would get to it the next day.  Tomorrow always did seem like a better day to do things.

 

He entered his room again.  His eyes avoided the mirror like plague.  He looked at the wall.  The stale, pale green leaped out at him.  He felt a sudden urge to find out who he was.  Would he have the courage?  He felt a lump in his throat.  His mouth was dry and his eyes were blurry.  His body trembled like a tree shaking in the wind.

 

He finally found the courage to look into the mirror and search for his own face.

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Heavily under the influence of Knut Hamsun and Fyodor Dostoevski

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allets's picture

A Green Wall Epic

Mirrors never lie. They snicker a lot though so be careful :D slc


 

 

fuche_bu's picture

My mirror mocks me every

My mirror mocks me every morning and then begs for forgiveness when I want to turn off the light.

Teytonon's picture

Impressive

You know you have something when you just have to keep reading to find out how it ends. I'm curious how long it took to put this all together.

fuche_bu's picture

I found this one written on

I found this one written on some loose leaf paper.  It was written probably around 1991 and based on markings on the paper, it was written in a single sitting.  I edited about 10 or 11 words when I typed it up yesterday.  thanks for reading and commenting.