Hello and welcome to the Fiction Section of Notes from the Town Hermit. I write literary and slipstream fiction and fantasy focusing on themes of identity and what it means to be human through a lyrical and poetic writing style. Subscribe for free to enjoy more stories.
Shimmering light—that's what he saw all around him—bright lights that didn't hurt his eyes at all. If anything, the welcoming warmth had him feeling at peace.
The state of stasis he felt—what he imagined a dead man walking would feel—was surprisingly crisp and powerful, like the air around him. He liked it up here, though. The sounds of city life faded whenever he climbed the steps to the roof.
He mused about how so many people probably pondered their last few moments, and although he could never be sure, these indeed felt as though they were his.
He thought about leaving behind letters—letters to those he loved, and those he liked, and those he disliked and even hated.
Maybe he'd even write some to the mundane everyday acquaintances, like the barista at his favorite coffee place, or the lady who walked her cute little dogs every evening before the sun set.
Or maybe he'd only write three letters to those he held with the utmost love, respect, and care.
Like Dorothy from the bookstall an hour away. Despite her surly demeanor, she'd made it her mission to seek out the most intimidating titles for him to devour. The talks he had with the woman the age of what his mom would have been were always thought-provoking, and her tendency to hide some wise advice in between them always astonished him.
On a blustery Tuesday like any other, but fated as the last, fingers brushed as she passed him Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet.
“Still devouring one a week I see. Always knew you'd turn out fine.” Her silver-gold bun bobbed with conviction. “Although maybe too fine for nosy neighbors, hm?”
He forced a chuckle. If only she knew the turmoil brewing behind his composed smile these last months. She shoved another stack across the scuffed counter before he could reply.
“Hmm, Sartre? And Human, All Too Human, Nietzsche?” He thumbed the worn covers. How did she always seem to sense his struggles? "You fed me grand ideas since my youth.” He met her knowing gaze. “I’ve clung to them on the long road since.”
Dorothy crossed her wiry arms. “Grand? Ha! I've only given kindling for that mind of yours. You burned your own path. Now keep warm out there.”
He hesitated then. A small crease formed in the corner of Dorothy's mouth.
“What is it, child?”
The crease deepened as he bit his lip. “Say the burning merely illuminated what was out of reach for the likes of me. Say it awakened the hunger without showing a path forward. What then?”
Dorothy's hands twitched as they rested on her crossed forearms, drawing his eyes to them. He could not tell if she meant to embrace him or strike him.
She did neither.
“Don't speak nonsense,” she said. “Which of us hasn't seen our share of suffering? Leave the past in the past. Now off with you!”
Not looking her in the eye, he swiped the books off the counter into his bag and swung it over his shoulder. He opened his mouth as he pushed the door out into the cold, but the words died on his lips. The moment had passed.
Perhaps it was all good now the hard part was over. Maybe moving on wasn't as easy. Maybe it all still danced and sang loudly inside his head, halting the progress that was now demanded since everything was okay now.
Maybe that's why his second letter would go to Carter.
The man who had stood beside him when he had thought he wouldn’t be able to move on from had happened to him. It comforted him to know he had something like a brother through those times. Carter, who had often found him slumped over the desk, eyelids leaden, ink staining calloused fingers.
“Still toiling away at ungodly hours I see. But you can rest now; the proposal looks damn impressive thanks to you. We'll make this quarter work, just have some faith.” Carter clasped his shoulder on the way out.
He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, lingering over those last comforting words. Had he leaned too heavily upon his partner's steady confidence? Selfish indeed—he should bear the worries too.
Carter kept coaxing him to take more responsibility, to step out of his shadow. “You’re more than capable. Don’t let the past define you.” That wry smile echoed even now. “I won't be here forever, y’know.”
He remembered the night he walked into files and papers lying torn and strewn upon the floor, and Carter leaning bent over a desk, chest heaving. When he put a hand on Carter's shoulder, his usually-calm partner wheeled around and shoved him to the floor.
“It's all gone.” Carter's voice rasped.
He froze. He could not hear his thoughts above the thunderous beating of his heart. “How?” he asked, finally.
Carter made no response, only sank to the floor, fingers clutching at a stray paper. He joined Carter, gently plucked the paper from his convulsive hands, and began gathering the crumpled documents.
But for many hours after he could not stop trembling.
Could he have done more? Would it have mattered?
The memory dissolved, but the weight of it lingered like a ghost. The ticking clock pulled him back to the present, each second an indifferent judgment upon his shoulder.
Well, Carter was around forever; he saw his ghost in every corner. And he found it amusing, in a grim sort of way, how forever had always been in his hands, how forever always referred to him. In the end, it actually was.
He held the power over forever, however much of a detriment that was; it was up to those around him.
Maybe the third letter would go to all that wasn't but could've been. A letter to circumstance and time. A letter writing down all the things that led him to where he was now, for he couldn't write it to people who had already crossed over.
And that was entirely circumstance's fault.
From the crash that stole his parents, to the institutions that stole the rest of his innocence he had followed the path circumstance laid before him until it broke him down.
The blares of car horns below penetrated his thoughts for a moment. The sound reminded him of those points of intersection when Dorothy or Carter had stepped in to his life and pulled him from the precipice. For all of that, he ended up on this roof in the end anyway. Others would mourn, yes, but perhaps more for having tried to save him and failed. He had no ability to relieve the burden of those he cared for most, only take advantage of their unwarranted generosity.
He stepped closer to the edge, feeling the cool night air against his face. The city sprawled before him, a tapestry of light and shadow. Each pinprick of brightness represented a life, a story, a world he could never truly be part of. The wind whispered around him, carrying the faint echoes of laughter and conversation from the streets below.
He also mused how it was slightly unfair that people would think him selfish.
Why would he even write a letter to those he was going to leave behind, after all? To those he was going to cause much grief?
Why would he, if he was selfish?
Maybe he was. But it was fair. It was fair because for dead men walking, the world dies for them before they die for the world.
And that, that was entirely up to the world and how it had all the power to stop this. But it didn't, for they were deader than he felt when he jumped off the ledge to join them.
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