He Left

Edgar Wright was a happy child. He was one of the more popular children in preschool, and had many friends. His family loved him, and it was plain to all the world that he would one day grow up to be a good man, maybe not special, maybe not a genius in any way, but nevertheless a good man. The world took him to its chest as it often does to those blessed by love, and young Edgar grew to become a keen young boy under her loving, nurturing tutelage. He was a class favourite throughout primary school and middle school, and enjoyed life with that single-mindedness which comes with being absolutely happy. His world seemed to him to be perfect in every way, and the thought of it ever changing never entered his darkest dreams. Perhaps it could be said that this lack of preparation for harsh realities is what led to his more dismal future.

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By the time that he was fourteen, Edgar had changed. The light in his eyes seemed dulled somehow, and his words were less oft heard to carry the angelic happiness of his years of dawn. Of course, this was easy enough to attribute to the oncoming of teenagedom. His childlike consciousness was going through a veritable maelstrom of change now, being twisted and pulled apart and expanded in every direction to allow him to grow into a more mature person. It was around then that Edgar became self-aware. 

He began to note things about himself. And in his noting, he began to judge. The introspective mind of a teenager is a sharp blade, and leaves wounds gushing unsurety all over their self esteem. He noticed that he was not especially strong, he noticed that he was not especially smart, he noticed that he was not in any way different. And in noticing all this, he also noticed that he had started to notice these things, and there was something in his head which he could not quite put into words. A sense of dreadful averageness began to numb his senses. Edgar was slowly, but surely, learning what it meant to grow up.

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At nineteen years of age, Edgar gracefully graduated from his high school. His grades had been of a high standard, but they had not been amazing. He could have done much better, but at some point along the line Edgar had convinced himself that it was not important. Being average had become a sort of identity for him, and the thought of being a high achiever was not one he let through his mind often any more, it frightened him. 

By now, the change in Edgar was undeniable. A sort of reservation had become apparent in his every day life. He still enjoyed an active social life with his long time friends, but it was beginning to feel like more of an effort with each passing day. He was dimly aware of a certain paralysis beginning to overcome his mind, but was unwilling to do anything to stop it.

At that moment, Edgar was outside a friend's house, having promised to come over earlier that day. He hesitated outside before entering, noting that he thought that he would much rather be at home. Although it was likely he wouldn't be doing anything at home in any case, besides sinking into the strangely deep and morbid thoughts that he had been having for months now. He looked at the door to the house and weighed his options.

He left.

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"In his poem, 'Dark House', Tennyson is expressing a certain feeling of solitude which seems to grip him following the death of his friend, but is unwilling to do anything about it. Note carefully the references to the blankness of the weather he describes. It is a well documented fact that symptoms of depression become much more pronounced in certain types of weather."

The professor's voice droned in the distance. Edgar ignored it for the most part, now. He had entered university with a renewed burst of vigour that had reminded him of his childhood days, but somehow it seemed to have worn off again. He glanced out of the window. It was raining; there was a distant boom of thunder, and rivulets of water streamed down the glass in intricate patterns. Edgar stared at them, searching for something. It seemed to him that there was some tremendous meaning in them, some deeper mystery that was more important now than anything he knew. And it defeated him.

He was aware of thinking all of this. Of late, he had learned to articulate the strange sensation he had had in his head since becoming a teenager. Ironically, it was from the very Literature course that he now so easily ignored that he had learned to term it. It was an internal narrative. An internal narrative that would not. Shut. Down. He found himself following it deeper and deeper until it seemed at the end that he might drown in his own mind. The splendid irony of it all was that he was aware of the fact that he was aware, his narrative had become self-conscious.

He felt an urge to leave the class and just return to his dorm. It was bad for him, he knew. He needed the grades badly, and his room had basically turned into a self-reflection chamber by this point. There was no reason to return there, and he hated it. He could break out of this cycle any moment he chose, but he could never muster the desire to break it.

He let his mind dream. In the next moment, he saw himself attending all his classes, saw himself performing well, making new friends, stopping himself from spiralling deeper into an endless pit. But it was only a dream.

He left.

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Mr. Wright sighed deeply. Thirty years old, and he was unemployed once more. It was his fault, of course, he was perfectly aware of that. He just never put enough effort into his jobs, he was never dedicated. Why would he be, after all? They were mind-numbingly boring, and he had never much cared for money anyway. The unemployment benefits he drew were more than enough to satisfy his frugal lifestyle.

But then there was his family. They were disappointed in him, he knew, and more to placate them than anything, he was now outside a prospective employer's office to help him leave this rut once more.

It might have been easier if he had still been in touch with his friends. A healthy spirit of comradeship and competition would have made it so much simpler for him to pick himself up and work towards a more fulfilling life. But, like all his other obligations, Mr. Wright had let his friendships disappear over the years. His fault once again, he knew. It wasn't until after he had lost them that he had realized how much their company meant to him. In the absence of real conversation, the incessant monologue in his head became even harder to escape, and it weighed down upon him terribly. It was a pity he couldn't go back to his friends. It was a pity he would never muster the will to try.

He looked at the office again. It seemed cheerfully decorated from the outside. Colourful flowers adorned the sides of the pavement, and the door was one of those modern plastic-like contraptions that proclaimed efficiency and a friendly atmosphere. It was just what Mr Wright needed. He yearned for it, he noted  himself realizing. He yearned for the company of people again. One more step forward and that life could be his, and he could shed this horrible shell of a person he had become.

He left.

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"I'm so sorry, Edgar. I rushed over for the funeral as soon as I heard. Please, if you need to talk, I'm right here." One of Mr Wright's oldest friends spoke these words of comfort to him, a few feet away from his face, yet they seemed to echo from miles away. Everyone was offering him condolences now, everyone who he thought had abandoned him had come back and were willing to pick up where they had left off. With the news of his mother's death, nobody held his aloofness against him any more, or so it seemed. He had a chance to reunite with them, but decided against it. It just wouldn't do now.

The funeral was a strange event for Mr Wright. He had always been extremely close to his mother, retaining his ties to her even after all others had eventually frayed. She was the last person he could claim to truly have cared for, in the end. Perhaps that was why it bothered him so terribly.

He felt no real grief. Mr Wright was greatly disturbed by this. He wanted to feel sad, he wanted to cry heavy tears as any other son who had lost his mother. But he couldn't. He was diminished, he had become an inadequate receptacle for emotion. And this more than anything unnerved him. He had grown less than human. He wanted to cry, not for his mother, but for the frustration he felt in being incapable to cry for her. He thought vicious thoughts, and his head turned against him for being less than capable. He told himself he was a bad son, but instead of reacting angrily to it, he sank into sorrowful acceptance.

Nobody else paid much mind to him. They thought his strangeness natural, given the circumstances. All they felt for him was pity, disgusting pity. For the first time in decades, Mr Wright felt angry. Angry at himself, and angry at the world for not understanding him. Noting this fallacy, his internal narrative rejoiced and plunged him into an ever deeper frenzied distortion.

Agonized, he looked away at one of his best old friends. He wanted to go and talk to her so terribly. He wanted to bare his soul and be told that he hadn't done anything wrong. He wanted to be able to cry, and he wanted his crying to be witnessed. He wanted so much, and he knew that she would not deny him. But he couldn't.

He left.

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Mr. Wright lay silently in the hospital bed, wide awake. He remembered letting out a scream as he fell from the ladder. Screaming had felt better than anything he had done in months. Just being able to release some of the pent up agony he felt was amazing.

He was by no means obligated to stay. But the doctors had recommended it, saying the happy environment full of cheerful doctors and nurses would be good for him. And it was, too. He felt blessed in the hospital, and never wanted to leave.

But he was becoming aware that he was losing control. No more need to justify to himself his internal monologue. It had grown sentient, and had overpowered the Edgar of times gone by. He should stay, this he knew. Leaving would be bad for him. 

Edgar cried. The release he felt was overwhelming, and the weight on his mind grew lighter with each tear that fell from his eye. Sitting up straight again, he brushed his hand lightly across his eyes.

He left.

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Mr Wright stood outside his father's house. The old man would be turning eighty two that day, and his son was coming to his house for the first time in a decade. He held a present in his hand, untidily wrapped. He looked at the door again.

He left.

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Mr Wright read the message again. "Your sister is very ill. Come at once." He had driven in a hurry to the airport, marvelling at his sudden ability to take charge of himself. All he had to do now was buy a ticket, and he would be off.

He left.

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The man was barely forty five years old, yet something in his demeanour spoke of the suffering of an elder soul. Mr Wright entertained no delusions now. He could no longer control his life. Every opportunity he had ever had, he had squandered. He could tell himself that he would try again now, but really, he never would. This was a man who never had a choice in making up his mind. Edgar noted himself telling himself that he was, in the end, a product of the times. Just a soulless husk like one of many who existed in this world. Edgar. He hadn't thought of himself like that in a very long time. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe it was time for him to leave.

It would be the easiest thing in the world, really.

He had been doing it for so long.

There really wasn't any point in staying.

He had everything he could possibly need to just leave.

Edgar considered again for a moment. But then, was it really a hard decision?

He left.