Creative Writing: Suffering

Sitting. Waiting. Sulking. Suffering. The days, unforgiving, continued to seep the life out of the lonesome man. For what reason? To anyone who had once known him, you could ask them, and instantly they would tell you that he had it all. He was joyful- a walking beam of light, and, as the others had noticed, next to his wife it was all they could do to not blind the world together. Though that was then; now, time, merciless as always, painfully and slowly drug him through life, unwilling as he was.

A single step out of his apartment door would birth a chorus of murmurings that simply sent him deeper into a state of melancholy, and giving in, he would slowly recede back into his room in an attempt to find comfort in solitude.

There was a moment

The weather was slowly turning more frigid as the days progressed, though he did not seem to notice- and if he did, he would not have cared. The only thing that had seemed to occupy him these days was the thoughts of returning to his sacred position of staring through the glass.

There has been talk of sending him away, for his own safety of course. What is the man to do with his life if he continuously locks himself in his apartment? Who goes from the happiest and outgoing person to one who wastes their life away, staring through a wretched window?

Empty as though he seemed on the outside, inside he ticked. And ticked. And ticked. Deep within the man, emotions were churning. As if a bomb had been placed directly on his heart, even the most minuscule of happenings sent him into an indescribably fit of rage. The irritability. The anger. The sadness. There was no escape, though there was for her- so it seemed.

He was not oblivious, he heard the whispers, he knew the rumors, felt the gawking. The man was present, simply not in the sense that others were yearning for. So instead he sat, basking in the window that even he resents, though for different reasons than the others, ones unbeknown to those around

Whether this was because of his sudden newfound apathy towards life or a coping mechanism in which to protect himself from the pain of no longer having her.

Sitting. Waiting. Now standing and walking. For the first time, he attempted to sever himself from the window. He thought of the whispers he would hear. In his head, he heard the voices of the people surrounding him, humiliating him. How could they understand? He grimaced. What was people’s fascination with pain? They feed off of others and they starve when it is their own. The break from reality happened constantly, so much so that it was his own.

The snow, the lights, jingling bells and joyful faces, it was all too much. Everywhere he went during this season he was reminded of her. Everywhere he looked he was immersed by the thought of her- the thought of her smell, her touch, her voice- everything.

There was no escape. He tried desperately to live his life as he once had, but without her, it was phony.

The first two steps out of his apartment door and they started again. The stares. The murmurs. Crumbling, breaking, hurting, the man promptly gave in, and practically ran back into his room, to his window, to his