Why is the Sky Sad?
A smiling Man with a Secret
James MarKent did not like people. He especially did not like people who smiled. He hated the way their clean, fresh teeth would wink beneath the glow of fluorescent lights. He hated the way their cheeks would become rounder, fuller. He hated the way their eyes would have a slight glimmer even when squinted down to half their normal size. The only thing worse than a smiling man, James figured, was a smiling man with a secret.
When James were to encounter such a man, it’d take all his strength not to pummel him to the ground, then and there, demanding to know what information was being kept from him. He would clench his hands into tight fists, clasping them at his sides as to make sure he wouldn’t lose control. He’d suck in air through secured teeth, not trusting himself to breath naturally. He would look away from each offender; scared he would do something rash and inhumane once he stared in their eyes.
He hated the scrutiny of their mocking gaze. They were of course laughing at him, passing around a secret that ridiculed his every move. Men such as that were waiting for him to make a mistake, waiting for yet another error he’d be sure to conduct. James wouldn’t only have to fight his urges to use his brawny muscles; he’d also have to resist his blush, something he didn’t believe any person should do unless they were of the female gender and less than ten years of age.
Social Anxiety Disorder. James heard those words murmured, sighed, every place he went. From the chambers of the many maids whispering about and spreading rumors to pass the time, to his parents, worried wrinkles etched into their foreheads as they spoke. He had never actually been uttered the definition, nor had he searched the term in a search engine, but he knew all he had to. He was different, not right. Special, was the word his mother had used. But James wasn’t an idiot, he knew special wasn’t a description of honor. It was the word used when normal wouldn’t fit. It was the word used for a loser.
James had never been to a doctor. It had never been confirmed that a disease was responsible for his strange acts and behavioral issues that he displayed when in front of a crowd. James knew his parents wanted to keep it that way, for they were embarrassed. Who wouldn’t be? Their son had been cursed by the devil, indeed a thing to blush about. Unlike him, his parents had friends. He’s sure they’d want to keep them.
See, James was a man of class, a man of wealth though not by choice. He would spend his days locked in the room of a vast mansion, reading dust-covered books by a raging fire. He would dress up in his best Sunday clothes, slicking back his hair with a palm full of gel, and he’d transport himself where ever the novels would take him. Though he had never left Ireland, James had been to 14th centaury England, a place full of roaring disease and chivalrous gentlemen. He’d been to the States in midst of war, amongst bloody battles that pit brother against brother. He’d fallen in love with damsels that wore the prettiest dresses, and never had a hair out of place. When James was reading his books, he’d suddenly become the hero.
Yes, James MarKent did not like people. Day after day he’d sit alone on his chair, reading a pile of never ending books, not having to endure the smiles people wore. James MarKent continued to live his life just the way he liked it. He intended to keep it that way.
***
Why is the sky sad?
James pondered this question, watching the tears of the sky fall, fall, fall until crashing down on the grey pavement, exploding. One after another they fell harder, faster than the one previous, ruthless. James was captivated. He stared through the window with his dark eyes, letting the red-covered book slip through his sweat-glazed fingers and land on the floor. It lay on the carpet, closed and momentarily forgotten.
Behind him the fire flickered, casting shadows of yellow and orange on the bare walls that surrounded his chair. Every few seconds James was left in the dark, the sole sliver of light coming from the circle window only inches away from his face. These pockets of darkness lasted not even a second and to James it seemed he was only blinking longer than he should.
He placed a hand on the cool glass, seeing the drops on his fingers but not feeling them. The clouds were dark, and they moved fast across the sky. James felt like the day was coming to a close, though the clock above the mantle told him it was only mid-afternoon. He blinked, showing no emotion as he watched. He saw tiny people from surrounding houses run for cover, abandoning their animals or even their human companions for a dry spot. He saw how they stared in wonder, convincing themselves they just imagined how quickly the sky had opened up, spilling gallons of water down to the earth.
Why is the sky sad?
James did not know. Unlike most things, the answer didn’t just appear in his mind. It was a defeat he was most upset about, it had been years and he still had nothing to show for it. The prestigious question had been originally asked during a time where James didn’t like to be alone. His young cousin had looked up at him, her blue eyes shining and her blonde pigtails bobbing. They were staring out, surprised, much like the peasants were doing at the moment. James now knew the question was wrong, and didn’t match up with science. It was stupid, silly. But James had to know.
Why, indeed?
When James were to encounter such a man, it’d take all his strength not to pummel him to the ground, then and there, demanding to know what information was being kept from him. He would clench his hands into tight fists, clasping them at his sides as to make sure he wouldn’t lose control. He’d suck in air through secured teeth, not trusting himself to breath naturally. He would look away from each offender; scared he would do something rash and inhumane once he stared in their eyes.
He hated the scrutiny of their mocking gaze. They were of course laughing at him, passing around a secret that ridiculed his every move. Men such as that were waiting for him to make a mistake, waiting for yet another error he’d be sure to conduct. James wouldn’t only have to fight his urges to use his brawny muscles; he’d also have to resist his blush, something he didn’t believe any person should do unless they were of the female gender and less than ten years of age.
Social Anxiety Disorder. James heard those words murmured, sighed, every place he went. From the chambers of the many maids whispering about and spreading rumors to pass the time, to his parents, worried wrinkles etched into their foreheads as they spoke. He had never actually been uttered the definition, nor had he searched the term in a search engine, but he knew all he had to. He was different, not right. Special, was the word his mother had used. But James wasn’t an idiot, he knew special wasn’t a description of honor. It was the word used when normal wouldn’t fit. It was the word used for a loser.
James had never been to a doctor. It had never been confirmed that a disease was responsible for his strange acts and behavioral issues that he displayed when in front of a crowd. James knew his parents wanted to keep it that way, for they were embarrassed. Who wouldn’t be? Their son had been cursed by the devil, indeed a thing to blush about. Unlike him, his parents had friends. He’s sure they’d want to keep them.
See, James was a man of class, a man of wealth though not by choice. He would spend his days locked in the room of a vast mansion, reading dust-covered books by a raging fire. He would dress up in his best Sunday clothes, slicking back his hair with a palm full of gel, and he’d transport himself where ever the novels would take him. Though he had never left Ireland, James had been to 14th centaury England, a place full of roaring disease and chivalrous gentlemen. He’d been to the States in midst of war, amongst bloody battles that pit brother against brother. He’d fallen in love with damsels that wore the prettiest dresses, and never had a hair out of place. When James was reading his books, he’d suddenly become the hero.
Yes, James MarKent did not like people. Day after day he’d sit alone on his chair, reading a pile of never ending books, not having to endure the smiles people wore. James MarKent continued to live his life just the way he liked it. He intended to keep it that way.
***
Why is the sky sad?
James pondered this question, watching the tears of the sky fall, fall, fall until crashing down on the grey pavement, exploding. One after another they fell harder, faster than the one previous, ruthless. James was captivated. He stared through the window with his dark eyes, letting the red-covered book slip through his sweat-glazed fingers and land on the floor. It lay on the carpet, closed and momentarily forgotten.
Behind him the fire flickered, casting shadows of yellow and orange on the bare walls that surrounded his chair. Every few seconds James was left in the dark, the sole sliver of light coming from the circle window only inches away from his face. These pockets of darkness lasted not even a second and to James it seemed he was only blinking longer than he should.
He placed a hand on the cool glass, seeing the drops on his fingers but not feeling them. The clouds were dark, and they moved fast across the sky. James felt like the day was coming to a close, though the clock above the mantle told him it was only mid-afternoon. He blinked, showing no emotion as he watched. He saw tiny people from surrounding houses run for cover, abandoning their animals or even their human companions for a dry spot. He saw how they stared in wonder, convincing themselves they just imagined how quickly the sky had opened up, spilling gallons of water down to the earth.
Why is the sky sad?
James did not know. Unlike most things, the answer didn’t just appear in his mind. It was a defeat he was most upset about, it had been years and he still had nothing to show for it. The prestigious question had been originally asked during a time where James didn’t like to be alone. His young cousin had looked up at him, her blue eyes shining and her blonde pigtails bobbing. They were staring out, surprised, much like the peasants were doing at the moment. James now knew the question was wrong, and didn’t match up with science. It was stupid, silly. But James had to know.
Why, indeed?