The Definition of Dysania (A Collection of Short Trepidations)

ᴜɴғᴏʀᴛᴜɴᴀᴛᴇ ᴇɴᴅɪɴɢs

This dawn is a mockery of the night before it. I stare out into the vast distance, tears drying on my face. With the sea wind, I can't tell if the saltiness on my tongue is from me, or from something vastly more powerful. I am crumpled inward, physically and mentally. A long time ago, the cliff's edge terrified me; but later, I met death in a worse way. Networking with inter dimensional beings after the fade of a loved one is generally seen as distasteful. But I didn't much care; pleading with an apathetic reaper, cursing a sociopathic god, bargaining with greedy demons, and repenting to deaf angels. I was desperate, and even I could smell it on my soul.

My eyes crane down to the ragged edge of earth, and trail across the rocks and sand and damp dirt, to the rippling tides.

I sigh, and I get up. Pacing to my car at the end of the road. My thoughts wander aimlessly, as they are wont to do.
Did you know that this cliff was supposed to be for lovers, once upon a time? A place to stare defiantly at the end while creating a new beginning. Then it got too overgrown for most and it was left abandoned, unmarked, unused except for the rare teenage rebel.

For me, though, I only related to it more as time passed and as it became more frazzled.
At least there is no littering.

My car door snaps shut, and I drive back to town. Maybe heading to the pub on the outskirt.

I won't be judged there. No one ever is unless they lash out on others. So, everyone behaves.

I make it there in a short time, and the sprightly jingle of the door bell greets me when I walk in. I realize I have never heard the dark mahogany floors creak in my four years of patronage. The legal drinking age is twenty one, but they let me in at eighteen. Whether it be by misunderstanding or by seeing how much I needed it, I will never get the answer.

I sit down at a small metal table near the front door, but still tucked in a corner. Like a background character—I watch people. Cataloging their mannerisms, mimicking their speech patterns, categorizing their body language and each way their bloodshot eyes dart. Never make eye contact though. You do this too, did you know? How else would we measure our 'normal'?

It seems like life passes by with the ferocity of one of those sped up videos of passerby in the street. Everyone starts to blur.

I look down. Everyone seems so rowdy tonight that I'm already exhausted, even if I haven't said anything. The dark, scratched, metal blurs in my vision. I put my hands on it, and rise to leave—slowly pushing the chair back with my legs.

A thud resounds from directly in front of me.

I startle quietly, and my eyes dart up to whomever disturbed my silence with their boisterous ripples of sound.

Light brown eyes, curly blonde hair, and a dimpled smile. I seem to have been paralyzed, as if my nerves got frozen with the momentary cold that passed through the door when it opened.
I breathe in and look away.

"Sorry, if you wanted a table, I was just leaving." I forgot how raspy my voice sounds when I've been crying. They always used to comment on that, make light of it. To make me laugh to make my tears dry and to make my voice better. They were always good at that.

I didn't notice how comforting it felt until it got taken away.

I have been distracted for a lapse in time; but the next moment, it was like an unwanted weighted blanket settled over me again.

To protect me from the cold, I guess.

If your heart thaws too much, then it will drown. And if it doesn't drown, then it will hurt all the much more when it freezes again. After that, it would only take the slightest beat for it to fracture into a million pieces.

"No no no, it's fine! I wasn't.. you don't have to get up if you don't want to, I.." silent startle again. The man's eyes dart around, looking for any other target than me. His shoes are shuffling away, bit by bit.

How pathetic must I look?

"I was leaving either way. No worries." The awkwardness of this scene is making me want to melt. I scoot past the exuberantly drunk crowd. It seems like simply my existence created a sort of bubble. Like a fence warning people away. This guy in front of me seems like the person that tripped and fell face first into it.

He notices my intent to flee and quickly makes room for me to pass. He seems about as done with this conversation as I am. What is keeping him around?

I don't have the mental bandwidth to care. I grip the entrance door, and open it to the nipping autumn. I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I tense up so much that I turn into stone

"What do you want? I have no money nor patience." I state coldly. Leave me alone. Leave me alone leave me alone leave me alone don't leave me alone.

The man flinches back awkwardly. Takes his grubby paw away.

"Sorry, you just seemed familiar." I study his facial structure a bit more closely. He looks so much like they did; I remember now, like headlights through fog.

He sees the recognition alight in my eyes, and relaxes immediately.

"Do you need the funeral information?" I ask, while motioning him outside to not clog up the front doors, and to hear him better. He follows.

"No, I've got it." he casts his gaze down to the orange and red leaves and the rough sidewalk,

"Are you holding up okay?" He says through a filter of obligated concern.

"Like a house of cards in a hurricane." I angle my body away, eager to run away and never come back. He makes a 'mmh' sound of affirmation. The kind of sound you make when you feel bad, forgot the words to articulate it, but know that the worst thing to say is 'I'm sorry'.

I'm sorry too.

I start walking away slowly. Not caring if he follows or not. I hear him scramble behind me to catch up.

I look up to the skies, and I see them darken in response.

"Ah.. I'm Jack—their friend, remember?" He says and seems to regret instantly.

"I remembered your face, but not your name," I walked a bit quicker, anxiety pooling in my stomach, "what did you want again?" I sent him a blank look over my shoulder, and then resumed my focus in front of me.

"I just wanted to get some closure I guess." An annoyed tone enters the conversation. The audacity to be angry with me when he started this.

"That's what a casket is for." I return. I'm almost jogging now.

"Look: I don't know what you're going through, but I was their best friend! I know what it feels like, too, so quit acting like you're the only one who gets to grieve!" I hear him shout hoarsely. He stopped following me, and I am quickly getting farther and farther away. He says something else, but I tune him out.

I guess grief is somewhat similar—but it is different, too. The one thing we have in common is this curse—this reminder of emptiness.
My grief is more. I was with them for so long now and they're dead! They died before our story could begin! They died in the home we just bought and it burned down and took them with it. Tears are free flowing and my vision blurs. I stop walking, wanting to crumple into myself again and never leave.

More muffled shouting bursts from Jack—and I am thankful for the ringing in my ear. I look down; don't listen. My heart is beating erratically.

So much shouting.

I notice, my shadow is bulkier than usual..

Crash.

The broken and fractured keys of the piano ring out through the street. Splinters among the leaves. Spontaneous screams of horror from passerby once the shock wears off.

Jack stands there frozen; unable to turn away from the gore. He tried to warn her about the piano. He didn't want to get under its shadow, though.

One more death, by a falling piano.

It doesn't matter if you're a main character anymore.
Plot armor has dissipated.

The Fates of literature are now slice-happy, their scissors have been sharpened and they are eager to provoke new myths. The Greek ones have gotten a bit outdated, haven't they?