Prank of Fate

 

Prank Of Fate

 

Mundane, my life is. Trevor walked into the streets, navigating through the crowds. The laughter of the teenagers gathered at the door of the cafe, a baby crying in his miserable mother’s arms, and the couple shouting in the distance painted the background in myriad colours, as each person told a story on that street, except him. Normal childhood. Normal parents. Normal job at the supermarket, but something felt amiss. It was like drinking a spiceless soup, filling your stomach, but not so delicious. If I die right now, what would happen? No one would care. Sure, the people would freak out at first and try to help, but all of them, without question, would share the same thought, the same feelings: Thank god it’s not me.

 

He smiled at the countless heads, cars and all that lay ahead, below the tall buildings. The city brimmed with life, hopes, and dreams. Yet he was just a pebble, a lonely pebble in a stream, drifting through life like a ghost.

 

Death is just the end. Trevor put on his noise cancelling earbuds and played Beethoven, The Moonlight Sonata. The surrounding sounds grew distant as he stopped to cross the road into the park.

 

He closed his eyes for a second and smiled. He let the music engulf him as each stroke on the piano moved his soul a little into a different plane of existence, where he alone mattered. Must be so selfish, to be the only important one.

 

Trevor opened his eyes. The green light was on, but as the tip of his shoe touched the asphalt, he noticed a car coming his way. He stepped back. The car passed by a hair’s breadth, bringing a gust of wind that blew open his mouth.

 

One step, only one step, was the difference between life and death. The car swerved, hitting the pole. Whispering, the teenagers in the corner tugged at each other’s jackets, not laughing anymore. The woman beside them held her baby tight at her chest. With a long breath, she soothed her crying child, not so miserable anymore. Quieting down, the lovers held hands, not so loud anymore. And with a placid face, Trevor stopped the music, not so aloof anymore.

 

Looking at his trembling hands, he turned his gaze towards the car. People rushed to check on the driver. He looked left and right and crossed the road into the park. Trees traced a straight line to a playground. The children’s screams and laughter sounded muffled, coated in tinnitus as they played. The canopy spreading above him was dark and dense, sheltering him from the sunlight. His steps were slow and ever so delicate. Everything looked black and white. People’s gazes seemed to cut right through him, as if he was invisible. Is everything, everyone, so trivial? No, there must be something great about this world, something important, something worth living for. He looked up and said. “Something worth living for.”

 

Trevor loved his alone time, whether it be while working the night shift, watching the sky on his smoke break, or sitting at the corner of a library surrounded by old books. Alone on the balcony of his apartment, he would brew his Earl Grey tea, sip it, as he listened to Chopin or Bach letting his mind escape into another world, a world of his imagination. He never really believed in its existence, but always sought it when the darkness of loneliness grew thicker. It brought solace to his turbulent soul.

 

With people came pain, whether or not they intended it. Trevor’s world was void of suffering, though. He had parents that understood him, a brother that didn’t abandon him, a wife that didn’t leave him, and friends who didn’t ghost him and take advantage of his kindness.

 

Decisiveness wasn’t one of his qualities. Scepticism was. It made him sane. To keep in touch with reality and stay functional, he had to be sceptical. It kept him anchored to reality and not act on his imaginary impulses. Nothing was true. Nothing was absolute. With that hint of doubt, he still enjoyed his evenings in his world. I wake up there and it’s the same uneven bed, same ragged ceiling, but in the morning my wife greets me, while in reality, loneliness is all I could ever hope for.

 

A man bumped into Trevor, who had stopped in his tracks, making him come to his senses. He fidgeted as he looked around. There, he set his eyes on an empty bench on the side. He sat hunched forward, putting his hands on his forehead. When life runs its course, death comes as a natural end. But beyond that is a heaven, so perfect it makes your face wrinkle in joy. So beautiful it makes your body float. So extravagant it makes you feel unworthy. Heaven is whatever you want. Whatever you imagine. You just have to be a good boy. His mother’s words echoed in his head in a soft voice. I just had to stay a good boy. A benevolent man. Death was just the end.

 

He accepted death. He believed he could make this world a reality in the afterlife, but facing it, he stepped back and cowered in fear. Why? Why did I step back? I have more to die for than to live.

 

Trevor raised his head and said, “Something worth living for. Hope.” I lost faith in people. I gave up on them, and because I was so afraid of being hurt; I missed out on the chance of making that heaven my reality. As long as there’s life, there’s possibility. As long as there’s possibility, there’s hope. “I don’t wanna be alone anymore.” His eyes welled up with tears. He, like the rest of us, was a broken man, seeking a sanctuary, his world of “what ifs”, but instead stayed alone, helpless, prey to his fears and anxieties.

 

In a daze of his own reflections and realisations, he got up and left the park, free of all his worries, taking a step right where he left off. Forward. That road, that damned road.

 

Trevor’s eyes got lost in the seething orange hue of the setting sun. With a wide smile on his face, unaware of a green light shining for the oncoming cars, he crossed the road, only for a heedless driver to snuff out his light, leaving the road dyed red. Such is the prank of fate.

 

  

Mouad Bozari

 

Mouad BOZARI, a 25 years Moroccan naval officer, started writing 6 years ago, and that has been his passion ever since. He published a 100 word drabble before in the Friday Flash Fiction online magazine.