Connor

The streets are all black, but it doesn’t set in. Everything that he does, he does with a grin. The empathy the pity, the stares and the fear. A smile shoots back and the guilt disappears. With the lights turned out, and the shutter on low. He sits and he waits for the trade winds to blow. The scent, the scent, the hum of the song. Feeling each day as if he belongs. The touch, the touch, the taste of a mint. Each step he takes, each step he laments.

Connor is his name, and he wakes in the morning. Startled by his neighbor, the snoring, his snoring! Feet slide off the bed, and onto the floor. He yells out with plea, keep it down next door! Sun shines through the window, and birds start to sing. Connor sits and wonders what this new day may bring. Cold floors remind him off the season at hand; the bitter frost that his knees cannot stand. But stand he does, with his face in the mirror. Disgusted with the truth that seems so much clearer. His teeth he must clean, and his hair he must brush. Slow down, he thinks, there is no need to rush. To start a new day, with everything the same. To him life’s a struggle, not a children’s board game. Why rush, why rush to a life without meaning, to something he hates, a life so demeaning. A life all alone in a crowded bazaar, praying to god to be hit by a car. To end the sorrow, and forget the truth, stop faking the smiles and acting aloof. But connor has not the guts, nor the fortitude to act. So he puts on his smile, and the people smile back.

The smell of the kitchen is heavy with smoke. From the evening before, from the lonesome last toke. The bottle all shattered, the brown scotch stains the rim. One lonely glass, for one, for him. No friends to share laughter, or stories about love. Just a single burnt out light bulb that hangs from above. No female to kiss, no woman to hold. Only white bread growing green with mold. Cabinets half empty, falling free from the hinge. Little orange bottles, evidence of the binge. Standing alone, staring off into space, wondering how he got here, got here to this place. What choice could he make, what decision was right? A path with no guide, a trail with no light. But life must go on, the day must proceed. A meaningless life, connor must lead.

The sun shining bright as he walks through the door. The streets are still black, blacker than before. His glasses are on, the glare from the snow. The time of the day, doesn’t care, doesn’t know. Hand raised in the air as he waits for a ride, he wishes, he pleads, to go back inside. The strain connor feels with no relent, ten dollars for the cab he thinks he has spent. He justs wants some help to get through today, charity, guidance any price he would pay. For a friend, or an ally, a partner in crime. Someone to touch, to feel would be just fine. But he knows that its futile, he knows it’s a waste. To dream of an existence outside of his fate. The hand he was dealt could not beat a pair, he stands at his work, he sits and he stares.

He sits at his desk, walls circle his life. One cubicle over from a woman, a wife; the lady of a banker, the mother of a son; the aunt to a nephew, a family as one. Down the hall there’s a friend, a friend to a dad, a dad to a daughter, seventeen acting bad. The daughter has a lover, a boyfriend, a mate, and he has a friend who never is late. Never tardy to a party, to a social event, to a trip to go camping ,with a group, in a tent. They stare at the stars and contemplate life, while connor is home clutching a knife. And the parents go out to the movies and shows, where connor is, nobody knows. Not a person in the world cares of his heart, not even his mother, who was there at the start. They all share a laugh, an anecdote to connect, while connor is home with a rope on his neck. They dream of vacations, to somewhere down south, and connor is alone with a gun in his mouth. They talk of vacations, and where they will fly. Poor connor is home with the gas turned on high. Fighting and struggling to keep the gas on, knowing his chances in life are gone.

It was gone from the start, he speaks to himself. No women, no fame, not glory, no wealth. The things he desires he can never possess, just a friend that he wants, no more, no less. But he sits at his desk with the wife and the dad, laughing in the office about the life he never had. Stories and memories of the things they have seen, about mountains so tall and grass so green. Tales of wonders and tales of woe, stories of places they surely will go. Connors has stories and tid bits too, about pains of life, and things he can’t do. Of laughter and smiles, he can hear but not see. Of visions of beauty he can only dream. Of waking each morning alone and depressed, and falling asleep alone completely dressed. Each day is a struggle and he hears them complain, of their pitiful problems and their all around shame. They cheat on their spouses and beat on their spawn, they spend all their money, until it is gone. Then they show up to work and bitch about their wife, connor wishes for an instant they could live his life. A life without meaning a life all alone, maybe then they’d be thankful, for friends and a home.

But these are all thoughts, locked in his head. He keeps from speaking not a word he does shed. He sits with a smile, a grin and a smirk, typing away, just doing his work. The sound of the chatter does drive him insane, but the life he must live hurts just the same. At least when he’s working he passes the time, alone in his desk like a practical mime. A man of few words and a million thoughts, connor longs for home, he longs for some shots. Of whiskey or rum, anything is fine, an ice cold beer or a warm glass of wine. A hit from his pipe, a line of cocaine; a mental adjustment to keep connor sane. The drugs the alcohol, the substance he desires, keeps his mind from burning like fire. He waits for the day to come to a close, what he does when he leaves, nobody knows. Connor walks home instead of a car, to him five miles doesn’t seem very far. When the lights are all out, and the streets feel the same, he is alone with his thoughts, with his shame. He doesn’t want help when he trips on the stairs, no need for a cane to avoid the glares. The glasses he wears are for fashion that’s all, doesn’t feel embarrassed when he collides with a wall. He still has a smile, a grin, that smirk, even though he was born with eyes that don’t work. His name is connor and he hates everything, but in his own house he’s the ruler, the king. The lord of the lonely, the god of the cursed; Connor’s life could not get any worse.