#77 Short Story
The man in strange attire claimed himself the center of the world. He believed himself the one in command. Though there were those he saw as better, nonetheless, they were merely plots, schemes, ploys, and conspiracies the whole world had for him.
He walked all too gently across the aisles of the common—folks of races so different from each other. Some led, some were led, a few believed they were leading, and so on and so forth. These were the races that mattered most. Their skin had altogether turned grey, and suits of different adornments were what led them all. Though their hues differed, they were all the same. Yet for the man in different attire, he was the only one different.
The streets were always littered. The garbage, all too common, was the least of concern. It was dreams that remained afloat, scattered throughout. Dreams that were still burning. Dreams that continued being chased. Dreams that had long ago unbecome. These were what was too common, yet of greater importance. At least, to those who still dreamed. Certainly, the man in strange attire could not deny they still mattered.
Poles of light, electric logs, panes that remembered even the dust of many years before, stalls made of metal, wood, and even papier-mâché—makeshift for hopeful, fruitless tomorrows. These were what glittered along the street. The common walkers were cautious of these—not because they were obelisks that reminded them why common men stayed alive, nor because they carried signals, lights, and power for ACs and fans during the hottest days and nights. Oh, these were too foreign in their minds. These were mere obstacles for the many who passed by. Save, of course, for the pictures, posters, and ads that withstood time. They were worthless. The man in strange attire noticed them; he understood. But these, much like him to the common, were all the same—trivial.
The rusted stairways and ladders of fire exits that never happened remained steady, along with everything that withstood the agony caused by time, weather, and the many folks who passed by them—taking breaks in the most unorthodox of places. They served no purpose except when needed. The man in strange attire saw them as places he too would one day go to—to indulge in his favorite pastime, tragedies of health hazards that most simply could not resist. But he believed that he would never be able to get there. His steps were never meant to go there. He had long accepted it.
And then the high-floor windows, metallic grates, railings of sorts, and delicately designed stone carvings of great architects—names long forgotten, unheard by many. The same went for rooftops beyond the corridors of peripheral vision, led astray and blinded by many lights, both sun and moon. Unromanticized by naked men loitering, feet stretched across metallic railings while holding their roosters for brawls in the cockpit. No pilots were needed to notice them. The blandness of the sky reflected the grey—the deified design meant for no eyes to truly see. The man in strange attire was not as concerned. But he too once saw them all. From somewhere far off in his past, long ago, he knew he could no longer reach them.
"You look weird," a young child appeared behind the man in strange attire.
A statement the man in strange attire had long accepted. And so, he ignored the remark.
He continued his trek, nonchalantly yet with great effort, evading potholes, puddles of mud, and feces scattered all over. He did not want his black shoes stepping on those. More so, both his eyes and appetite hated noticing them. He cared more for his look than what he was looking at.
"Are you deaf?" the young child followed.
The man in strange attire clicked his tongue. He continued to ignore the unremarkable, remarking child.
"Where are you going? Do you have spare change?" asked the young child.
Ahh! Another beggar with remarks unneeded, unconsciously killing their own business of vagrancy.
The man in strange attire moved on, ignoring the child.
"Got change, mister?" the child asked again.
The man in strange attire continued to ignore him.
The young child grew more aggressive. He grabbed the tip of the man's clothes. Strangely enough, there was enough force to tug him backward to a halt.
The man in strange attire immediately pulled his clothes back.
"Unhand me!" he said, piercing his gaze into the young child's eyes.
The man noticed the child was also in strange attire. But such strangeness among the many was far too common to be strange.
"I don't have spare change, so leave me be!" said the man in strange attire.
"You sure?" asked the young child, his strange little eyes fixed on the man's hips.
Instinctively, the man's hand moved toward his pocket.
Rattling could be heard. Most noticeably—the sound of coins rustling.
The man in strange attire was lying. The young child knew.
"Come on, mister," insisted the young child. "I heard some change. Please spare me some."
What if it's already enough just for me?
The man wanted to lash out but kept his cool. With a deep breath, he sighed. He knelt to the young child's level and looked him in the eyes.
"I'm sorry—"
"You know, mister," the young child cut in, "you're really a strange one."
The man in strange attire was taken aback.
Strange? Does he mean different?
The man smiled and regained his composure.
"I've always seen myself that way," he said. "Thank you for noticing."
"That wasn't a compliment, mister," said the young child.
The man was both confused and flabbergasted.
So, it was an insult?
"No," said the young child. "Just what my eyes can see. Nothing more."
"I see," said the man.
Then should I change something?
"Not really," answered the young child.
Suddenly, the man noticed something amiss.
Was I actually saying what I was thinking?
"No," answered the young child. "You're just easier to read compared to others."
Read? What? Can this child read my mind?
"Nope, I can't." The young child stepped back, agile, nonchalant, and soundless.
"What?" the man said, even more flabbergasted.
"I can't read minds," said the young child.
That's strange.
"But I can read the script," the young child confessed.
A brow of the man rose. His eyes looked at the child, yet not fully.
Script? What script?
"I already said it earlier, right? You're easier to read," the young child replied.
The child smiled, then leaned close to his ear and whispered, "You're just a character in someone's story. In this short vignette, you are the center of this small world."
The man in strange attire pulled back, disbelief washing over him.
What?
The young child smiled as he stepped backward, still facing the man.
Suddenly, a crowd of people flocked between them. The young child vanished, swallowed by a torrent of faceless beings.
The man in strange attire straightened himself. His attire must always be at its optimum. Yet his mind buzzed, unable to settle. The words of the young child echoed within him.
As he went on his way he gradually lost his color. He turned grey—becoming one of the many faceless men, unadorned by the writer of this story.