William's chapter of That Dark and Winding Road. Click here to read again how we first met him.
There was nothing remarkable about the day. No emotional highs or lows. Just a day, like nearly every other day of the year.
William came home from work, threw his keys, his coat bag and empty dishes from lunch on the kitchen table. Half the contents of his bag clattered to the floor. Any other day William might have left them there until the next time he sat at the table. This time he bent over to pick them up and *BANG* his head connected with the table top.
He bit his tongue, and the taste of blood trickled into his mouth. William shut his eyes and watched the gold and blue lights dance. "Shit," he thought. William stood, to blinding pain in his head. "Gotta love those instant headaches," he muttered.
He figured nothing helps skull searing pain but hot water, so William turned on the shower and let the room fill with steam. He stepped in and let the water run down his back. William could never feel how tense his muscles were until the hot water began to sooth the ache.
Leaning one arm against the wall his head fell nearly to his chest. Then the tears came. He only cried in the shower. The running water mixed with his tears and ran down his cheeks. Here the red flush of his cheeks could be from the water or out pour of emotion, but no one was there to know. The spraying water and noise of the fans even masked the occasional audible sob.
His knees buckled under him and William found himslef on the floor of the shower. Still crying. He laughed between his tears, marveling at the utterly unmanly situation he put himself in. If the world could see him now.
Not that the world ever saw him anyway. Just a few days ago he went to the party. Filled with people he wanted to be. He tried the art of positive thinking, to picture what he wanted.
He had a fantastic life in his head. But his personality always wrecked it from coming through to others though. And there's a fine line between positive mental pictures and delusions. He didn't need to add crazy to his loser label.
That label was slapped across his chest like a name tag at the party. Hello, My Name is William, the Loser, blaring like a siren he knew everyone could hear.
Of course, most of them put up a polite front, not openly mocking him to his face. A small blessing, he supposed. But he could see the pity in their eyes. It made his neck burn with embarassment.
He tried his best to live up to the persona in his head at the party. He put on that mask--tried to smile and make small talk. God how he hated the fucking small talk. He yearned for a conversation. Something that wasn't that nauseating exchange of pleasantries.
But when you say, "I've had a really shitty day, the weather is horrible and I could give two fucks about the state of politics in Uganda as reported by the New York Times." If you say that, along with LOSER, they smack the WEIRDO tag on your back. Right next to socially inept.
He snickered at that sorry sight in his head. The ladies to his right looked at him and moved a little further away. His shoulders sunk. Exactly. He pushed his way towards the bathroom to splash water on his face and regain some composure. Or at least have a moment of peace.
Except that the door to the hallway was blocked by Matt and a gaggle of his adoring followers. He tried not to listen as Matt recounted a hilarous story about his exciting job and how colly he leads his life. Instead, William watched. The way Matt used his hands to emphasize the highlights of his story. So crisp, each beat dead on, the perfect punctuation to each point.
Then Matt pointed, at William? The group laughed. William turned away and placed his hands on a table below an ornate mirror. Trying not to hyperventalate, he focused on breathing deeply. He looked up with no acknowledgement of his own reflection, and surveyed the room. From this position he let his heavy mask slip.
The pain pooled around his mouth, pursing his lips. Defeat shown in his eyes, but William refused to face it, to actually acknowledge it there. Instead, he continued to look past himself, observing others without being a part of the group.
That sense of isolation jolted him back to the present, sitting in his shower. He turned off the water, then leaned back to pull himself up to stand, and his hand grazed his razor. With pain, fear and humiliation crushing William, he wrapped his fingers around it.
He brought it to his wrist, tracing a line down his arm. He leaned forward and looked at the faint red scratch. More pressure ...
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