User:Nextoy/Short Stories/Beneath the Mask

The pitter patter of the rains turn umbrellas into nature’s instruments. Evening lights of the city blind the dark clouds those rains come from. The din of the people deafen fabric and plastic drums. Those without umbrellas relax under awnings or frantically run through the rain with hoods protecting them. Few are out in this street unprotected.

Many put on smiles and talk to either friends or phones. Some scowl at the crowd and noise. Others simply light cigarettes in silence. Yet there’s one who doesn’t do any of these. A young man, whose expression is flat, gazes around the crowd and listening to their conversations. Most wander these streets with a purpose in mind. He simply walks along the town.

Unlike the others his head is unprotected from the rain, his body unprotected from the cold with his thin shirt, and his legs adorned for comfort rather than style or practicality. Only his feet are protected from the elements by boots. His hair matches the flatness of his lips and the dark color of his eyes. A man either ill prepared for the culture he lives in, or simply indifferent towards it. Though the rain fails to blind him as he walks along with eyes, fully open behind non-prescription glasses.

Those who notice him say nothing. They don’t need to. Both he and they know what the exchange would be. Small talk at best. Such are his weekend evening walks. The smell of alcohol fights against the scent of rain and the city. The former waxes and wanes as he passes those coming from the different bars and restaurants.

A female voice catches him from behind. A friend walks up to him. He paints on a smile and chats. Nothing of substance is said, but the two of them enjoy themselves. They both walk along the city. When the friend isn’t looking his face flattens. Without fail it turns back up once he becomes the center of attention. Little to his knowledge, her honest face doesn’t mirror his polite mask.

They return to his home and part. He is soaked from the rain, and washes it off with a hot shower and a hot meal. The TV plays the newest episode of a show he has been following in the background. Some exaggerated drama that makes it easier for him to avoid silence when he feels social. His look then becomes merely a dried off version of his look when he was walking along the rains.

Yet, a soft smile curls on the corner of his lip.

When his show ends and his belly is full of food, he spends the rest of the night playing a game while talking to people on his phone. He speaks in bad jokes, cultural references, and the occasional rabbit hole spiral of philosophy. Yet those few deeper conversations often concern things that would have no lasting memory, had it not been dissected.

These disjointed internet conversations allow him to think out his response, but robs both participants of the true emotions within their conversation. Laughter never aligns with when it’s sent in text, and emojis only display a concept instead of a response. He never knows who else notices this besides himself. He doesn’t mind this fact, but it’s unknown if others would. Stopping to find the right word slows down conversations and cause needless embarrassment. Using the wrong word causes confusion. To speak in concepts is better for him.

Some days he uses his phone to talk to people verbally. Some problems are fixed, others are created. Words and emotions are more genuine. Concepts must be spoken verbally. He fights to find words, but refuses to show it. Though some notice how he pauses as he talks, they don’t point it out. An illusion of his own creation recognized as such.

Though he is begged to stay in conversation, eventually sleep takes him. In the world of his dreams he becomes someone he’s not. Someone who can help others directly. Strong, athletic, and intelligent. In some dreams he has powers, in some he merely has guts. He becomes a man who can act with courage and do everything he thinks of doing.

Each night that he has one of these dreams he awakens with his heart beating and a smile on his face. Though this quickly fades. With some reluctance he gets out of bed and makes himself breakfast. Another day begins and time moves on, with his dreams of heroism left behind.

Instead he finds himself only being able to help those from a distance. Listening, giving advice, and asking questions are his power. It's not as glamorous as comic book heroes, but it's what he has.

Though despite having such a relationship with his friends, few know his own inner workings. He lives alone and only ventures outside are for school, work, shopping, and his evening walks. His job is with a mop at a nearby fast food chain. He dresses plain to further conceal himself. He takes to his studies in silence. Students and coworkers often forget about him, his manager barely view him as a sentient being, and his teachers hardly notice him at all. Yet he makes no conscious effort to change any of this. At some point isolation became his sanctuary.

Though he is young, he does not act like a youth. He lacks their energy and drive. Instead it is replaced with discipline and muted ambition. Yet the need to be active acts as his primary motivation. The what no longer matters. And so he finds himself walking along the town on a rainy evening. The rain soaks his matted hair, drenches his clothes, and attempts to blind him. Those around him fret over the poor weather.

Instead of complaining or hiding from that which he can’t control, he simply keeps walking as a tiny, almost insignificant grin refuses to leave his expression.