Trespasser of Life

Four pictures lay on a mantle, one contains a smudge. A young child watches with naive curiosity. But he too is a trespasser on life, unworthy and a misfit.

A trespasser, he is. The rotted wood of the mantle is also. A smear in the pristine, tainted with dirt. Unbelongers stymied in eternal flow. 

Upon the mantle lies 4 frames, one sullied with a layer of dust. The smear is meant to be, for otherwise, the trespasser may be noticed. Not one looks closely, not of hatred, but of inconvenience. Rather, the glass shines under the incandescent light of the twinkling chandelier. When the pretty flower in yellow dress glows, a picturesque fit for the Apple-Pie family, why look at a smear. 

But if they look, they notice not of the all-encompassing sorrow, but a tidy blue blazer replete with a glossy rose in the boutonnière. But if they look, it was only for cod. A mere glance. Not of scrutiny. 

So not one notices the trespasser. Decaying in solitary in a closet of rotten cherry wood. 

Except one, queer and childlike, of Peter Pan and Neverland. A toddler, yet to be at the sugar high of adolescence. He is playing a game, looking for a pattern. 

He notices.

A game, he thinks, eyes with a spark ignited. Look for the misfit, he plays. It is like at school.

It is not a game. 

But he knows little else than what he perceives. 

So he sees the trespasser. Little fingers, the width of matchsticks wipe away the dust. Unaware. 

He has cleansed the sinful smear. 

The cinderpath to joy has sealed. It is his own doing. 

He too, has become sullied. Unclean and undeserving. But even as he wipes his fingers on the hem of his shirt, he cannot return to before the Chernobyl. He has become Ishmael, the unworthy. A trespasser on the scene. A watcher with no story. A spectator with no significance. 

Intruder in life.

He is little more than a pitiful rat, crawling through walls and peering through cracked pipes to seek an existence. Eavesdropping, but of no care. Benign, merely a nuisance. 

A ghost amongst the living, unheard and unseen. 

There is little purpose to the existence of a trespasser. 

He has lost the childlike naïveté at last. No longer a game to him. 

Austere fingers place on his shoulders, guiding him to the exit. He does not turn back. He welcomes the cold indifference. He knows he’ll not be an intruder if he leaves. 

A foggy breath is let out on the doorstep, and his shoulders fall. 

He is forgotten. 

“Trespasser,” he whispers. Barely heard, stolen by the gale. 

Author's Note

What do you think of my story? I’d really appreciate a review! I’ve been thinking about exploring this concept for a while!

Reviews

[Vertigo Cat1111]

This was such a cool idea and brilliantly written too! I loved the concept and it’s obvious you have a lot of great ideas like that. This one is probably my favorite of yours so far for many reasons- the way it was written, the concept and the wording. ‘A toddler, yet to be at the sugar high of adolescence.’ I particularly like this line a lot- it’s obvious how much thought and heart went into Not only this line, but the story in whole. And the atmosphere is so great too! Sad with a hint of spooky, and yet also, determination perhaps? A bit of anger, maybe, too. I really hope to see some more of your stuff, I always look forward to reading and how it sticks out from other pieces I’ve read, in a good way!

[Winwin4ever]

Thanks so much for reviewing. I have to admit, this is one of my better works, and I’m so glad you enjoyed it and I’m glad you look forward to reading my works! I look forward to reviewing more of your writing too, and I will review all of the recent chapters.

[Vertigo Cat1111]

Thank you so much and it was my pleasure! Take your time!