Hello 2025,
This is definitely one of my most favourite scenes that I've written, so enjoy:
The heavens beckoned forth water, thundering down until man could only find composure in the warmth of light, moths to a flame. He stood, a deformed and unusual creature of the night, water pouring down his back, drenching his clothing and he stared blankly upon his reflection. The scene contrasted itself. He stood near joyful instruments, yet could not summon one ounce of joy himself. Swings and slides sat beside him and if the man closed his eyes, could hear the exhilarated screams of children with their wars consisting of the struggles of stuffed toys and action vehicles. He could not return to that round oak table where he spent plenty of midnights pouring over pages, arrogance etched within the scratchings of paper.
For he pursued a role of critical importance, and perceived he would obtain it by end of week, so assured of his achievement he cast aside his fellow competitors carelessly. His unchecked smile engulfed his wearied face upon completion and his worn out shoes tapped beneath the forewarned desk, revelling in his joy. His assurance became his downfall, for they frowned upon certitude and exiled him to humiliation to mortify the poised. The man had spent the hours succeeding in a blinded craze, contemplating his chances to deviously announce his accomplishment within domestic entanglements but with modesty and humilty, of course. He spun at his chair with childlike exuberance, sat through dinners with his family grinning wildly but kept his mouth woven shut in a constrained countenance that seemed vulnerable to implode. And implode for seemingly improbable answers he did.
At the reflection of these harrowing notions that seemed so foreign to the miserable man, he so crammed of suppressed resentment and self loathing, closed his eyes and reached into his pocket. Rain continued to fall in an intense rage, reflecting upon the misery of its companion. The scene unfolded within his mind. He had gripped the laptop with his hands, shaking in anticipation. He was alone, his wife had left him for a cross country retreat, his children enclosed in their respective schools and he could not halt his eagerness. But when the screen had lit up and the answer awaiting was displeasing, it wasn’t disappointment or anger that engulfed him. The man had only felt fear. Frightened, that denial of the worst had escaped him and was now ill prepared to face the selfish unseemly. Panic raced against his skin, his arms becoming ice cold and his fingers shook against the cold metal of technology. His body could not move, and he could not even attempt to reread the lines succeeding his failure, instead he sunk into a state of torpor, idle and apathetic.
Out from his pocket, he procured the letter for of course he had it printed. His resignation towards his fate was alarming to those he loved. Where was the drive that had once seemed insurmountable to overcome? His failure became the culmination of his existence, like dominoes the rest of his life fell. His wife never returned, and he discovered she was having a tumultous affair and was left to raise his offspring by himself. His children detected visible signs from their father, for they were perceptible to one who encompassed their world so dearly, and started to act out to gain favour and attention.
But perhaps his spite was most felt in those that he had fallen against. Hands of allies often wrapped themselves around necks of the revered in a spiteful pit of envy and hatred. A coward’s shield, of sorts. Jealousy had emerged from his void of frustration, rising as naturally as humanity could repress. It stemmed from the inability to truly express his anger, tied by society’s custom, to admit praise and laud champions of peers, and consider the feelings of friends. Yet, the incessant loathing of man’s mind whispers at him in the depths of dawn. And the thoughts that he tries to bury into the open grave, wrap around one’s soul until the mere glance of friend is corrupted by perception and your heart blackened by contempt. His friends had sensed his gradual disappearance from social life, unable to comprehend but unwilling to extend attention.
The man was utterly and entirely alone. Holding the paper aloft to an audience of none, the rain fell and in a few agonizingly slow minutes in the thunderous weather, the paper was reduced to nothing.
And the man allowed the water to wash away his miseries.