Spold

The soggy cylinder rotated and rolled between the expert fingers of a terminal nicotine addict.
The hunched figure looked up into a sky full of falling rain. On nights like this, there was the void, and the world was painted upon it in a network of soaking highlights.
And then there was light. A match flared in the darkness.
The man in the rain mused upon his life so far. His name was William Spold, and he would be the first to admit that he hadn’t achieved much in forty-six years.
In fact, he wouldn’t be the first to admit it – he wouldn’t get a chance because of all the other people doing him the service of kindly admitting it for him.
He sucked on the glowing cigarette banefully as he hunched under what little shelter a vandalised bus-stop offered.
Oh sure – he’d passed a few exams, even tried university for a while before dropping out. He’d managed to have a few steady relationships, before the women lost interest and went away.
He could remember having ambitions. A long time ago. He’d wanted to join a service – be a soldier or a firefighter – a man in uniform. He remembered thinking that the title “Firemaster” sounded rather grand. But somewhere in all the years of drinking and dossing and trying to grasp onto some ‘ideal’ bachelor lifestyle, all that had disappeared, along with the money pissed down the back alley of the pub, along with the women who had apparently loved him.
Had he loved them back? He couldn’t remember anymore. They had all said exactly the same thing when they left him – that he was too selfish, too naïve, too lazy to love. Perhaps they were right.
Maybe the problem was that he didn’t have the willpower to make any effort in any part of his life. Relationships, career, money – they all went down the drain just like the rain forming rivulets in the gutters and hurrying on by. He’d even lost touch with his parents simply because he couldn’t be bothered to contact them. And was too stubborn to admit that any argument was his fault. They were probably dead by now anyway.
Spold splashed his way down a rain-soaked street, lit by orange lamp-posts. One of the lamps flickered on and off, on and off, over and over again.
He wondered if it all would have been different if his parents had brought him up differently. They had done everything for him, and prevented him from getting into any kind of trouble, money or otherwise. So there never seemed to be any point in doing anything. If he left it long enough, it would be done for him.
This had always left him a lot of time to think, amongst the arguments. To think about what he had achieved. Which usually, since he was so lazy, was not a lot, and this in turn depressed him.
And now, twenty-five years later, still here, still thinking, still doing nothing.
Spold reached a bridge across the huge, slow river which meandered its way through the city. He looked up. Although it was still raining, the clouds were beginning to thin, and one star winked at him from amongst the smog.
He had once gone out with a girl who had told him that everyone got reincarnated. He wondered if this were true, as he climbed with difficulty onto the balcony. Standing up, he took in the view and realised it was higher than he thought. There was the void, with the world painted upon it in patterns of light. He flicked the dying cigarette into the blackness.
He didn’t really want to kill himself, he thought, as he stepped forward. But then he was too lazy to live, so what was the point?
The expanding ripples were disturbed only by the raindrops falling to meet them, patterns of light on the void. Noticed by no-one.
And then there was only the void.

• Favorite
• Report Concern
• Share This
  • Facebook
  • Twitter

Add your comment

You need to login or signup to add your comment to this work.

Tags:

short and stories