#79 Short Story
And all I could do was shout
of injustice, cruelty, unfairness—
without ever looking
through the looking glass.
----
"I've had enough!"
The metallic door—filled with rust, dents, and graffiti, aged fine like wine—was slammed open. Its front face hit the wall outside, leaving both of them with new scars to tell more tales.
A young man in homey clothes burst outside. His face was rugged, his eyes still innocent. His hair was messy, the perfume he wore coming from the shampoo he adored whenever he bathed. He had muscle here and there, but his stomach bulged slightly. His hands were delicate, though hints of callouses were just beginning to form.
He had seen things—things he reckoned were not too trivial. But all along, they were mere fiction, unnecessary for men of the common sort. He saw himself as both partly common and uncommon.
His eyebrows were crunched. His face was far too emotional, a tint of red spreading all over.
He turned around and shouted.
"I'm done! It's over!"
He grabbed the handle of the metallic door and swung it just as hard. It was unprepared for another blow—more wear from the delicate handling of its residents. The door had feelings too. The metallic door slammed with a loud crash, thunder echoing.
The young man in homey clothes hurriedly ran away.
He was unaware of the grin that was looking at him. A new nick had formed on the wall the door had earlier kissed.
----
Fuck! Fuck! Damn! Fuck!
Cursive curses ran through his mind as he let his soles guide where he went.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
His eyebrows were crunched up. His eyes, fearsome. His breathing synced with his curses. His face, a pale ruby hue. Sweat ran down his forehead. The veins on both sides of his head and along his jugular throbbed.
Fuck! Damn! Damn! Damn!
He failed to see the beauty and miracles the world had to offer. In his mind, he was tearing the whole world apart. A world filled with cluster bombs, volcanic eruptions, people screaming and running—everything in terror. It was what ran in his head as he walked on.
I wish some damned fool would just push the reset button so everything would just—
He suddenly stopped in his tracks.
The monologue—his stream of cursive consciousness—came to a halt.
There, not far in the distance, on a stone bench near the school library of their small town, sat a familiar young child.
It was his nephew.
A pale, ardored hue. Wet streamlines of tears trickled along the young child’s cheeks. Heavy breathing he was not unfamiliar with. Eyes fixated on the ground, long swallowed by thoughts.
He loved this kid much like a brother.
And there, at a distance, he saw his nephew crying.
The young man ran toward the child.
The curses and thoughts of the end vanished—as if swallowed by a void with the distinct scent and aroma of love and care.
He ran toward his nephew.
----
"Silly mom, dumb dad, ugly nana… all of them are bad people."
A kid—barely halfway through his first decade—sat on a well-carved, mason-made stone bench meant for people to unburden themselves, if only for a moment of respite.
He was deep in his own verse of childlike curses, swirling into a strange, macabre, youthful monologue.
The world to him was too small, sometimes too big, and most of the time just enough. Yet it was all too uncommon for him to be unsad. For that silent hour, he was unhappy.
"I hate—"
A young man, panting at first, suddenly arrived. Along the way, he had managed to calm his heart, though the sweat on his head betrayed his rush—and his inability to run even short distances.
The kid noticed none of it.
His eyes lit up.
It was his favorite uncle.
He quickly wiped his eyes and face with his hands and the back of his arms—as if tears were impurities, while the dirt on him was of no importance.
"Hey there, little John," his tone was like a choir meant to sing the merriest Christmas songs you hear in malls during the holiday rush. He wore the fakest smile he could. His eyes were like naturally colored glass—stained slightly with tears, but still beautiful. As stained glass should be: ephemeral, ethereal, beautiful—and everything that isn't inside.
"Uncle Jude!!" said little John.
He shot up from his seat and hurried toward his uncle, jumping all over him.
He was his favorite, after all.
"You don't seem to look too good, little John," asked Uncle Jude.
"Uncle Jude! Uncle Jude! Can you take me to the ice cream store again? Please? Please?" the little kid asked, circling and bouncing around him.
He ignored his uncle’s question. At that moment, it was trivial—he wanted something else.
"Why are you here alone, little John?" asked Uncle Jude.
The little kid kept jumping, listing all the flavors he could remember from the ice cream store.
Uncle Jude sighed.
Ignored again.
The young man remembered how tiresome little kids could be. All the kids he knew were like this. He didn’t hate them for it—but when asked, his first thought would always be fear.
As he once tried to explain in gamer terms: little children act like they’re invincible—like they can respawn. And that becomes the trouble of the adults around them.
"Let’s get ice cream, alright, little John?" Uncle Jude obliged.
He had no power over the kid. Especially not his sister’s son.
"Yes!" said little John, striking a victory pose like something straight out of a cartoon.
"Do you have anything with you? Your bag? Your things?" asked Uncle Jude.
"I got nothing, uncle. Let’s go!" said the little kid, grabbing his uncle’s not-too-rough, not-too-soft fingers.
He dragged him with surprising force, and the young man, with only a bit of hesitation, let himself be pulled along by the small tide.
Then suddenly, the young man stopped.
The kid was forced to a stop too—his feet halting like a cartoon freeze-frame. He let go and turned around, eyes like small embers, fierce like a barking puppy.
"What gives, uncle?" little John said, playful—but just a bit serious. "Let’s hurry up!"
The young man found the moment both irritating and amusing—a perfect blend.
He sighed.
"You know, little John," said Uncle Jude, "you shouldn’t—"
"What now, uncle?" the kid cut in, voice higher, face crunched like the cartoons he loved. He was clearly irritated. He clearly wanted ice cream.
The young man wanted to give advice. But he knew—it wouldn’t land. Not like this.
He paused.
Then chose something simpler.
"Promise me one thing," he said, lowering himself to eye level.
"Yes, uncle?" the kid asked, suddenly attentive.
"Hate is a very powerful word," said Uncle Jude. "Don’t go around using it so lightly."
"But uncle—" the kid began, misunderstanding.
"No ‘buts.’ If you’re mad at someone, that’s fine. But don’t hate the ones who love you dearly, alright?"
And right then—
As he spoke the words—
He heard the answer to a question he didn’t even know he had.
"Okay, uncle Jude," said little John.
As if he understood.
The young man smiled, stood, and walked ahead.
"Let’s go."
The kid’s face lit up again—clearly not understanding what had just happened.
"Okay, uncle Jude!"
"And after ice cream… can you come with me?" the young man asked. "I need backup. I have to face my own battle."
"Your own battle?" asked little John.
"Yeah," he nodded. "I’ve got my own too."
"Okay, uncle!" the kid said, psyching himself up like a cartoon hero.
The young man smiled.
A little kid had just taught him something.