Ignominy

A short story- part of "The Vehemence of Us" collection- that explores the humiliation of an individual in a post-apocalyptic setting.

The loose concrete crunched under his feet as he trudged among the worn down city. Not another being was in sight; the only sign of life was his own shaky breath reaching its way into the cool wind. The universe admitted to its faults and hesitantly handed its weaknesses to their creation. He was the only model left in the wide world of destruction. 

Even all that was once living seemed to be completely detached from the planet that once provided their salvation. His mind was void of what was originally thriving. Instead of growth, his thoughts shriveled into fragile petals, dehydrated veins, and a lack of vibrant colors. The garden of preservation was coming to a gradual end. The final stretch was near, but not quite yet. 

In the distance, the man laid his eyes on a singular object that was, first, seemingly beyond his comprehension. Yet so simple, it possessed shades that were deep into his memory. Perhaps days ago he had seen it last, perhaps years. Perhaps in another life. The man was utterly fixated on the miniscule item. His trudge turned into a walk, then a jog, then a run, until his inconsistent breathing became unbearable. He began to cough, saliva filling his mouth and bits spurting out with each heave. The man’s eyes started to water as the coughing grew more and more severe. His sight began to falter, but the bright color of the small facet of the world insisted on its presence. As the coughing subsided, his chest began to sting with the reality of the scenery in his field of vision. 

Accustomed to always being numb, this was new. Similar to excitement, but not quite that; perhaps a diluted version of the emotion. Due to a constant deficiency of feeling, the man was more surprised than anything. Between the sudden physical failure and the enthusiasm of his newfound interest, he felt an odd collapse, an irrational apprehension. The world has already ended, but not for him. He was real, a living being on the earth, even if he was the only one. The man felt the weight of the world slump and die in his hands. It crumbled to pieces. He tried to pick it all up, but to no avail. Before his eyes, was the disintegration of all that was. 

His eyes finally traced back to all that was left; the small object.

A flower. 

A living, thriving, prosperous plant. With the flower, a daisy to be exact, came hope. A glimpse into the future. Something to hold, something to believe in, something to. . . 

He ripped the flower from the ground, bringing it close to his face in order to bask in all of its beauty. The white petals and bright, yellow center showed the innocence of the world, and the utter emotions of the man. His fingers traced along the delicate petals, all the way to the slim, green stem. The bottom of this delicacy was now damaged from being torn from the ground, but the man did not seem to care. He saw the flower just as precious, nonetheless, and tucked it away into the raggedy pocket of his jacket. The man was no longer alone in the world of ruin.

As he continued to walk along the path to nowhere, he felt a twinge behind his eyes. Both at once, starting abruptly, but lasting for what seemed like hours. Before the man could fully comprehend the feeling, the slight discomfort turned into a burning sensation. He felt years of built up extremity in his head, yearning, begging, and longing to be released. The hankering yielded momentarily while the man composed himself, placing his hand firmly into the pocket which held his companion. The daisy, instead of providing comfort, asked, with a touch of demand, for the man to let go. Surrender the confusion tied to the unfamiliar feeling, and release what pines to be heard. 

The profound urgency within the man escaped in the form of tears. Dissimilar from the water which grew in his eyes moments before due to pure exhaustion and weakness, this held far more significance. The importance seemed vastly misplaced, and the few tears that streamed down his unwashed cheek were chased by more and more of their kind. The small cry turned into a wail, and the only common theme between this overload of passion and himself, was the daisy. 

The man snatched the daisy from his pocket, and in the process of doing so, two helpless petals fell from the flower. His sobs only continued. Louder, and stronger, and never ending. He blamed the flower for every bit of feeling, and threw it to the ground. The man stomped on the daisy, dragging the feeble flower under his shoes, and screamed for only himself to hear. 

His tantrum concluded shortly after. The man was not satisfied, no. He wiped his pathetic tears from his face, leaving no trace of the display that was just conducted. The man was ashamed; but, why? What was the point of embarrassment when there were no others to please and make comfortable? And even so, what was the harm of feeling, even if there was no clear explanation? The man had forgotten how to feel, but had held the flower accountable, exclusively out of shame. He glared down at the flower, sorrowful of his rash decision. The concrete he had just walked on, was the lying grounds of the only honest piece of himself. Among the weight of the world, he now held the regret of destroying the man he used to be. He lifted the pieces of the daisy from the ground, having to scrape up certain parts with his uncut fingernails in order to retrieve all that was. It’s as if he could no longer look at it without feeling a strong sense of guilt. Even so, he pushed the dead flower deep into his pocket, silently begging for forgiveness.  He could not possibly be the symbol of all that was left, it was a poor representation of the world’s creations. He was plainly worthless, even in this empty, dilapidated city. 

Reviews

[Sauti_Ukweli]

I really like how you took something seemingly concrete and made it abstract in the post apocalyptic world. Also impressive is how you portray the soltude surrounding the mon character as he is seemingly losing his mind.

My only advice to you would be maybe add some dialogue that results from his wanting to hear anyone's voice, even if just his own. That may portray his current state even better.

[Jordan Serena]

Wow, thank you so much for the compliment and constructive criticism; I really appreciate it! Adding dialogue for that reason is a very good idea, and I definitely will give it a shot!