Audience of None
He could hear himself sobbing, and noticed vaguely that his stomach burned both from the strain of his cries and the caustic aftereffects of his healthy swig. He figured that a sob that loud and otherworldly ought to be accompanied by a truly broken heart, not some dead lump like the organ that thumped in his chest. He felt theatrical, as though his current state was some sort of display for someone else’s benefit, even though his cries echoed in the empty house. He seemed to be observing himself in his grief, but the consciousness doing the observing wasn’t emotional in the least. In between spasmodic howls of perfunctory anguish, he felt perfectly neutral. Nothing. No spark, no anger, nothing but relief at not having to feel anything. Damn weird, really. His wife had driven away with his baby girl minutes before, and he was putting on an Oscar performance of give-a-shitness for an audience of none.
He wondered if he’d ever had a genuine emotion in his entire life. He felt with dread that at the Final Reckoning he would discover that every cry, laugh, chortle, sigh, frown, and even that semi-crazy smile that turned his stomach every time he glanced it in the mirror, was just a reflection of how he thought everyone else expected him to feel. How genuine was anything in his life? What was the “love” that he had spent the last ten years pursuing with the woman whose departure he was now vehemently if artificially mourning? Was everything just some Broadway act conforming to his expectations of everyone else’s expectations?
Why the fuck couldn’t he feel anything?
It probably wasn’t true that he didn’t feel anything, just that he didn’t feel the right thing. The portion of his consciousness that did the thinking in between his sobs felt a colossal sense of relief, though that brought on an artifact of shame as it revealed how undeniably callous and artificial he had become over the years. On the bright side, he no longer had to pretend that he loved a woman that he really didn’t love. Didn’t even like, really. On the other hand, he was perhaps the world’s biggest asshole. But he could now spend his entire waking existence precisely how he chose, without the disapproving glances and well-meant but god-awfully annoying exhortations to pull himself together, put the bottle down, and go to work. And he no longer had to go through the motions of emotion. He could be just as dead as he felt.
He noticed that sobbing had stopped. Strange, really, to observe yourself from within yourself. He was the self-contained play-by-play announcer, color man, and main event. He chuckled without moving his mouth and poured another glass. No ice, no mixer, no fucking around. Let’s give me something to talk about. It burned in his throat, and a couple of seconds later, his stomach sent the welcome report that his medicinal elixir had arrived. He had grown to love that burn. It meant that relief would soon follow. He felt himself relax, and a dull smile crept across his mind and visage. His eyelids drooped slightly, partially obscuring yellowed eyes, and he settled into his favorite easy chair. Sports? Music videos? Perhaps a show about volcanoes. He had nothing but time. Already called work with today’s lie, something about car trouble.
As his eyes unfocused in the general direction of a random sports talk show, he realized that he actually relished this development. Deep down, he truly was a drama queen. He loved circumstances about which he could have conversations in his head about himself. “He’s going through a rough time right now. Wife and kid left him the other day. He looks remarkably good for it all though. Seems to be coping well.” Who would say shit like that about him? He imagined this conversation among the coworkers who were picking up his slack and unfucking his prodigious errors, covering for him perpetually. Reflected on the department and all, their names attached to it too, etc. Truthfully, he just wasn’t that interested in anything at work. Or anything at all, really.
This entry was posted on Monday, November 8th, 2010 at 10:03 pm. It is filed under Fiction, Ideas.
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He noticed that sobbing had stopped. Strange, really, to observe yourself from within yourself. He was the self-contained play-by-play announcer, color man, and main event. He chuckled without moving his mouth and poured another glass. No ice, no mixer, no fucking around. Let’s give me something to talk about. It burned in his throat, and a couple of seconds later, his stomach sent the welcome report that his medicinal elixir had arrived. He had grown to love that burn. It meant that relief would soon follow. He felt himself relax, and a dull smile crept across his mind and visage. His eyelids drooped slightly, partially obscuring yellowed eyes, and he settled into his favorite easy chair. Sports? Music videos? Perhaps a show about volcanoes. He had nothing but time. Already called work with today’s lie, something about car trouble.