The Man

He lies on the couch, back propped up by some pillows, laptop on his lap, legs crossed and propped against the couch’s arm. The light from the computer illuminates his face, casting it a ghastly shade of white, the shadows warping his normally boring face into a grotesque, alabaster mask. His eyes, strange, shining with reflected light, but barely moving, staring at the screen, the little, pixel-thin line disappearing, reappearing, disappearing, and then reappearing again. They glance at the clock, 10:36, 20 minutes since he had opened this document. 20 minutes of brain digging, idea searching, screen-staring. And still he has nothing show for it. Another minute passes, and still the line teases him, playing a mocking game of peek-a-boo with him. An hour passes, his eyes glued to the line, his brain no longer even trying to come up with something to write about, and now just counting out the rhythm of the line. 1–2–3–4, 1–2–3–4, 1–2–3–4, and so on. And still he sits, his legs crossed on the couch, his back against the pillows, his face painted stark white by the vacant screen. He knows he’ll regret this, he knows he should at least try to work, but he’s too tired. And even as the line blinks, on and off, on and off, his eyelids start to droop, his eyes begin slow, his head begins to fall to one side, and he drifts off to sleep, the line dancing all the while.

A few hours later he jolts awake, his brain screaming for him to run, to hide, to fight. For those few seconds time seems to slow, his heart beating faster than it should be, his eyes dilating, his body taking in every detail, the white of his socks, the blank black of the screen, the hard surface of the keyboard, the slight poking in his neck coming from the couch pillow, all attacking his senses at once. But those seconds pass, and his heart rate slows, his eyes shrink, his nerves calm. He looks around, the effects of sleep-amnesia fading faster than they came. He’s still on the couch, but his feet are no longer crossed, one on the floor while the other is still propped against the end. One hand is off the side, while the other is folded over his chest. His back is tight from being upright for so long. His mind calms down after a while, the adrenaline from the previous panic dissipating with every passing moment. Yet he can’t go back to sleep. Now he’s awake, and the guilt of his mistakes rise from the depths of his mind, as they always do in the quiet moments. He remembers friends he’s driven away, of people he ignored, of spoken words that he didn’t mean, of embarrassing acts and shameful choices. He remembers the lies he told, the truths he hid, the people he ignored. He remembers the lovers he hurt, the friends he betrayed, the people he abandoned. Each and every memory reopens another scar that he had deceived himself into believing had long been healed. And with nothing else to do, nothing else he could do, he weeps. He turns on his side, and weeps, the hot tears leaving tracks across his cheeks, his nose, his eyes shut tight, his lips peeled back in a taut grimace, a cry of anguish, despair, and regret escaping through clenched teeth. He cries, and cries, and cries, until he goes to sleep.

When he wakes, his eyes are puffy, his hands hurt from where his nails have dug into his skin, his jaw sore from being clenched for so long. He pushes himself up, goes to the bathroom, and washes his face. He dons a new shirt, some worn jeans, and some clean socks. He pours himself some coffee, eats some cereal, brushes his teeth, shaves, puts on his shoes, puts on a fake smile, and goes out to face another day, preparing for another night.