He truly hates autumn.
They liked to say autumn was a season of wonder, of new beginnings as the past was swept aside, with the leaves falling off trees, the hands buried in coats, the dogs barking in parks and the children laughing in the playground. It was deceitful, he glared, filled with spite. Leaves fell off trees because the bond of leaf and branch had weakened, science had dictated it so. Wind carried it away, forcing them to separate and never to see another again. Hands buried in coats hindered human interaction, although he quite enjoyed that fact, but often caused collisions on the footpath as one went away with the other bumping into them. It was quite strange, he observed, as they acknowledged the other but continued on each other's path.
He supposed that was what he seemed to other people. Just a stranger they bumped into on the footpath. A small overlap on their universal path but never to be seen again. He knew they would never wonder what happened to him. It wasn't like being given a trophy by a stranger or being served by a waiter in a grand hotel. Those were core memories, forever etched into their minds but people bump into one another everyday and faded from one hour to the next. But never to him. Never mind, he never won awards or saw no need to visit grand hotels. Those strangers on the footpath were all he had and he remembered every face. Whether they were old or young or weary or elated. Whether they rushed past him, barely sparing an apologetic glance or smiled at him, embracing the walk. He remembered them all.
It did not change his opinion of autumn. The new beginnings optimistic people often referred to were a facade for the bracing of the plunge in temperatures in the following months. It irritated him, yes, that he couldn't take one foot outside his apartment building without the bristle of dried leaves beneath his feet but he'd rather the winter chill arrive sooner. At least it did not have mood swings; bitterly cold one day and slightly warm the next. Autumn and spring were all the same, differing in temperament of temperatures, as one season tended to be warmer than the next. Never mind, spring was supposedly filled with hope, just as he believed autumn was filled with despair.
But he did not obsess over the underlying effect of the season. He hated autumn the most, yes and remembered every human who could not place him in a crowd even if their life depended on it but may, july, october, january were still the same for him. Months on months of restlessness, teetering on to madness, as summer came and went and the ocean that seemed to beckon towards him swelled and thrashed but never swum in.
The ocean didn't call to him as it grew colder. Maybe that's why he liked winter, each passing day was a sign it would end, that summer would be here. But autumn just meant that winter was coming, it meant more minutes would have to pass before the salty air would even seem seducing. Now, it was cold and barren and the water would feel as cold as the air they breathed themselves. He sighed, staring at his window.
He hoped it would all change. Summer was upon him soon. Autumn waved far away in his gaze but he should have begged. Because as sunlight rose on a fateful fall day, bathing his old, rundown house in a glow and the sight was one to behold.
He did not notice the creaking of the doors the night before, nor the tiptoeing or the hidden shadows. The lights continued to flicker and remain aglow and he assumed all was well. His snores were the only sound that filled the echoing hallways of the vacant buildings, a feline purring ever so slightly but it awoke with a yelp, scampering out the door and into the street as the cars honked their horns and the glow of screens never seemed to waver. Slightly at first, a movement in the very core of the earth that no one noticed as they walked quicker and talked faster, afraid of wasting time, colliding with another but swerving away. Only he awoke with alarm, faltering, pausing as his breath quickened. The paintings started to shake, begging for relief as the walls of the house began to collapse inwards.
He didn't scream. He didn't cry. He did not beg to be saved, nor did he even attempt to save himself. He saw no ending that was worse than what had befell him, saw no reprieve except this feeling. The house remained a wreck for a few months. It had collapsed inwards so it caused no pain for any neighbours. They were too afraid to venture inside and no saviours came. No one was sure of the man who had dwelled, whether he remained inside, or had ventured to the ocean or to the footpath he often strolled, and no one decided to even see.
He truly hated autumn.