Discreetly, the night began to show its nasty colours. It was tragic that he knew even before going what the implications were. It was instinctive of him to know, his paranoia aided him in lots of ways unbeknownst to others. He grabbed a pint of beer and sat in a corner while an orgy of perversity swooned across the entire area. People behind masks, masks that were for him tainted and stripped of all respect. She complained a little about the expenses and the time. He waited patiently, stealthily, like a vulnerable rabbit in wildlife during the hunting season. He watched in disgust his reflection as he entered the loo, the annoying position of his hairstyle, the ageing choice of clothing, his unbearable crooked smile, puffy cheeks, and negative connotations of his presence overall. They both went out for puffers carrying the weight of the glass with them underneath the frozen twilight. A familiar face crept from behind a few minutes before finishing a round, not the friendly one, he added. He bid his greetings ad disappeared once again, then came back to annoy the bejesus out of the lot, then disappeared again.
This really pulled a nerve on him, the distraction, the preparations needed to perform such tasks, the sacrifices he made out of desperation for wanting to be accepted, the reason for needing.
The two went back inside to be met by more faces.They lingered and shared their hi's and hello's before everything turned off the minute after the couplets arrived. These were the fruition of his labour, the offspring of his demise. To him it was insulting to finally meet them after long, torturous waiting. This was the mistake he was waiting for. He couldn't bear the shame of failure and defeat. One of them, a she, a specific kind of she, not only a she but the she, came up to him and in a split second stared at him with regretful eyes. He was left speechless, only muttered some gibberish to accommodate his painful trauma. The she walked up to him and gave a soft, wet kiss to the cheeks hello, and he heard his clavicle crack at that moment. He couldn't think of anything else other than what the fuck is he doing here? But all that has been answered a month beforehand while he was unknowingly creeping up on her. His burst ego and his distracted thought processes disintegrated before him. His intolerance was no longer present, it was all purely chaotic and madness. He reached for his coat pocket and found his phone, rushed outside, and in pretence talked to an invisible conversationalist on the other line just to escape the lunacy before he suffers a major myocardial infarction.
He really believed he could take the person down with just a sway of words and his then-irresistible, now-irritable charm. That moment changed him. It served as another painful excuse for one of life's neverending moral fucking lessons. Like a fable from the farm where the pig learned its limitations and a bird freefalling from the sky, or something to that effect. It scarred him because it was real. It scarred him because it was another one of those 'wake up call' moments. That fucking slut. But she isn't a slut, she's amazing, maybe a bitch then? No, a slut's a slut. Turn around to a cacophonous buzzing of thoughts in his head. He was once again heartbroken. It was never supposed to be. It started with a game. Martin Lawrence said something like, 'shit just got real.' His shit just got real. Never play with emotions, he learned at that moment. Maybe that's a legitimate advice for him. He never take advices other than his own. Too stubborn for anything, too lazy to die. He hid from sight for as long as he possibly could, leaving alone his companion tending to herself but she can manage. Now what? He asked himself truthfully. Try as he might he smiles his way out of absurdity and into the abyss of obscurity. He clenched his fist and took a long, winding respiration. He entered the same place to muster enough courage to speak openly to the acquaintances. Sex isn't all about bodily fluids, he randomly spewed out of his ever so useful mind. The she finally acknowledged his presence, and with his knees about to break down and his mind once again scattered in all directions, introduced him to him. Funnily enough he had the impression he knew him even before meeting him, as if he echoed his name fluently when she mentioned it. Conniving, he thought. He wasn't rude or anything, he wasn't much of anything either. Maybe they deserved each other. All those who fuck with mediocrity bear offspring of the same kind. He was in for quite a treat, and only time will tell which is which, what is what, who is who, and ass to mouth.
It was a pill that's tough enough to swallow, but those who do bear witness to the comeuppance of themselves. Those who do not remain loitering around the hallways of uncertainty, only moving when a host decides to tickle the parasite. Slowly people who fuck with people that fucked people came and all the while it was him, I realized, who lost the most out of everything that's happened. His sweet innocence is forgiven. He will rot in misery for years to come. Michael Cera. Just by saying that it made him laugh out loud inside the bathroom of his home. It was a day later but not a moment too soon. He went home the previous night retaining what's left of his sanity slash humanity. All that remained in the same place were souls running out of gasoline. He had a full tank of his own. He never started driving it yet though. When his engine will begin revving he never knows but at least his influence on them were evident. The structure and outline of time slowly diminished before and after his departure from whence they came. This was the ulterior motive he was looking for. Long enough to understand the simple mechanics of pain, anguish, he begins to write in paper, and began with adjectives that described that night of infamy.
And to her he still wasn't a champion of sorts.