Fa�ade
by kaitlyn sudol
Emptiness. Emptiness surrounded him, saturated him.
The loft was bare. He was alone, by himself in the cold, lonely dark that remained in the once lively flat. The tables were bare save for a typewriter. All evidence of any other occupant was gone. He couldn�t stand it, but he would die without the loneliness. He wished to god he was exaggerating, but deep down he knew the truth. He knew that connection wasn�t possible anymore. He knew being detached was the only way to survive. It was maddening.
During the day, he remained complacent and gentle. His friends surrounded him and showered him with false support. Night was different. At night, he was left alone, he was left to himself to say and do everything that he hid during the day. He was able to shout and scream and kick and cry with no one to hear or care. And cry he did. He spent nights curled in his armchair, venting in a way only true pacifists would understand. He would spend hours weeping, ending with the angry destruction of some work-in-progress out of frustration. Crying made him feel weak. It filled him with self-contempt and self-loathing. It made him hate himself even more than normally. But it was the only escape, the only exit from his torment. He�d tried everything else, but it was so hard to hide things from his damned friends.
He had bruised and bloodied his arm one night, bruised it rather badly while letting out his inner-rage. He covered it with a sweater before going down for breakfast. Still, they knew. Roger and Maureen noticed it right off. He had made something up, but they had even seen through that. �Okay,� they said aloud. �Liar,� their eyes said. �Tell us, tell us the truth. Talk to us!� their eyes pleaded. He ignored the eyes and smiled and laughed and sighed when he was expected to. Inside, he screamed. Deep down, he wanted to tell them. He wanted nothing more than to grab Roger and Maureen and tell them everything. He wanted them to know about the crying and screaming and how he slammed his arm in the closet while trying to put his fist through the door. He wanted to really cry, to release the hold detachment had on him.
In reality, he smiled and laughed and sighed in the right places. Roger and Maureen argued and joked where they were supposed to. They all carried on the grand charade, every day of every week. It was like a standoff. The first one to make a move gets...what? Maybe that was the reason why no one would do or say anything to take that first step. They felt they were walking on eggshells. They thought first contact was synonymous with the death of their relationship. No one ever stopped to consider that the other two parties needed this as much as they themselves did. Their ignorance left them all in the dark, but Mark felt it most literally, most fully.
Roger found comfort in Mimi. Maureen had Joanne for solace. Mark had only an empty room. Mark had a typewriter. Mark had his camera. Mark had his fits of self-loathing and his tears of fear and regret. Mark had his false cheer. Mark had no one to connect with. And sometimes, when he was alone at night, sitting in his chair and crying for help, sometimes he thought of changing that. Sometimes he imagined just running downstairs and finding his friends and crying to them. Sometimes he wanted nothing more than to open up to everyone. Other times, all he wanted to do was hide. He wanted to curl up and hide away in a corner like a little child. He wanted to stay away from everyone, eliminate all of the guilt that was piled on him. But most times, all he wanted was to be normal. He wanted to be young and happy and successful. He wanted to be loved and respected. He wanted, more than anything else in the world, to be understood.
But still, he cried. He cried as the emptiness filled him to his very soul, because he would never fulfill any of those dreams. He would never be understood. He would always be alone. He cried in fear. He was afraid. He was afraid for his future and he was afraid that one day, one day in that future, the crying would stop, but the emptiness wouldn�t leave him. And as he sat, cowering and sniffling in his worn chair, he realized that was the worst fate of all.
And so he continued to lie and hide and cry. He continued to laugh and smile and sigh in the right places. He remained instigator of the great charade, because he knew, as much as he hated feeling the pain, it was better than not feeling at all.
-end-
~*Haven't We Been Here Before*~