Child of Ennui

I hated him. It was mostly his face that I hated. No. It was everything. It was his being. The face was just the symbol of what I hated. It was the most outward and salient sign of his inner being, the concept behind the visage, and that concept was a corrupt and hypocritical one. A face hides everything, and the more contrast between face and inner being, the more the mask diverged from what it covered, the more hideous the creature.

But don't you want to know the object of my hatred? I can't bear to say his name, so I will just say that we work for the same company. He sits in the neighbouring cubicle. We sit in our cubicles all day, bordered up by walls of carpet. They may as well be walls of cast iron. I hardly ever see him, but when I do his face stays with me for days. It isn't just his face. I told you already that it was his being. Do you remember I told you. Listen well. I won't tell you again. I need you to understand, dear reader that I hate him. I get so frustrated at not being able to give a reason that would be sufficient for you all. I hear you saying back to me, talking to the pages, but why do you hate really? You haven't given a good reason. It's a trite explanation. The explanation of those who want to excuse their hatred. Haven't you thought that maybe there is something inside yourself that you hate, or something outside of you, something about your world, but nothing to do with your office neighbour, that is the cause of your hatred. And yes, I have thought of this. Why do you think I haven't. But I think that I would still hate him even if there were another reason for my hatred.

Supposing there even is another reason that isn't just the object himself. Let's suppose you are right, reader. Let's do a test. Perhaps I hate because I am disatisfied with my state of being, with my very state of mortal being; and perhaps this makes me hate my immortal self, if there be such a thing as an afterlife. And in hating my immortal as well as mortal self I hate the idea that I might live on, so to speak, either in heaven or hell. I hate that God might care enough about me to either save or condemn me. But let us imagine that I go to an empty and unknowable void when I die; that I return to what we all were before creation. If that is the case I have just as much reason to hate myself or anybody who comes in my path as if there were no consequences beyond our mortal lives. In fact, if this latter be the case I am bound to be more selective and exclusive in who I hate. If the physical world, our mortal reality, is all there is, then I am bound to myself to not waste the evil that I can unleash. I therefore chose to hate, and to see where the hatred would take me. But let us do a test. Let me change one thing about myself. Maybe it is your job that grows your resentment. Maybe this explains your dissatisfaction. Maybe so. I don't even know what this company does. It doesn't make anything. It doesn't serve any purpose from what I can tell. Let me see if taking another job will change my outlook.

I have taken another job. Actually, I lied. I sometimes tell little white lies, but not often. I hate liars. They are Janus faced ones. They look one way and another and you never can tell which side is which. I don't want you to think that I'm a liar. Anyway, as I was saying, I have taken another job but with the same company, in the same department even. My last job was in strategic management, now I'm in management strategies. A month has gone by but has brought no change in my feelings towards him. I still hate. I thought it was his face. I hid from him. I would hide behind my hands every time he walked passed each other in the hall, or if I encountered him in the break room. So I thought it must not be his face that I hated. It must be his voice. But I hated him even when I didn't see him; and this was when I realised I hate his being. I began to formulate my plan.

I hated in particular that he would seem to talk on the phone as if he were talking to himself. He had a way of casually chatting that felt at the same time forced, as if he were a bad actor in a movie about an undercover operation.

Yeah hi yeah anyway love ya bye. That's how he spoke.

No. It's all good. I'm fine. See you tonight. That's another example. I have many examples. I can prove it to you. I came to suspect that he was talking to some kind of sexual partner. They clearly had a close relationship that went beyond sex, but sex was clearly a part of it, because he whispered something every time he spoke to the other person. I continued to formulate my plan.

The next week was the annual work party. Every year, the management would reward us with pizza, low carb alcoholic beverages, and assorted confectionaries. It was a banal but often enlightening occasion. It was interesting because of its banality mostly. People would say anything that came to mind when they were bored. They would open up more. It was here that I met the partner of the one I hated. From the moment I saw her I knew that I was justified in my hatred, and I realised more fully than I ever had before just why I hated. I said that I hated most when the face contrasts with what is inside. I can read a person well, you see. I can tell when a smiler wants to stab me in my face. I can tell when a sweet talker has sour intent. When I saw his partner, that indescribable beauty. I knew that he must be a liar and a hypocrite to have her. He must have cast spells and used tricks not allowable in any playbook in order to have captured her. For he was no more a spectacle of appearance than me. I neglected to mention that we are both roughly the same height and build. We have identical haircuts, are clean shaven, and even have the same colour eyes. How is it that she would choose him over anybody else? Over me? Because she hasn't met you before. Yes. But she could have sort me out. Realising that he was a hypocrite and a base liar she could have sort me out. I believe that I am a rarity in honesty, and this makes me difficult to find, but easy to recognise once found. All she had to do was look. Now that I was in her sights she would have no excuse but to see by contrast with my honesty that she was partnered with a liar, a most hateful liar.

I walked over to her and introduced myself. We seemed to hit it off, as they say. It was rather strange but satisfying how close I felt to her, and how close she must have felt to me. She must have been told about me. He must have spoken about me. She said that he had indeed spoken about me. She looked worried. I asked her what the matter was, and she told me that she thought that he was sleeping with another woman. She knew that he sometimes worked late, and that maybe that was why he often came home after midnight. She also said that she knew that he and the others in the office often went out for drinks.

Why do you think we go out for drinks.

But don't you.

No. Never. It isn't that sort of an environment. Maybe he works late. Maybe he goes out for a drink after. But I certainly have never had a drink with him.

Her eyes opened wider. She leaned into me and whispered.

Do you think that he is sleeping with another woman?

I whispered back that I was certain.

Oh, thank you. Thank you for your honesty. I knew I could count on someone in this city to be honest. I only moved here last year, and it's been hard to find friends, but now I think I have found someone I can trust. You're a good friend. What's your name.

I told her.

Well, please come and visit me sometime.

I smiled and told her that I had better go and get some pizza before it was all eaten.

In the car ride home, Rebecca was uneasy. As he drove, Garth kept looking over at her, sensing her uneasiness.

Look at the road, Garth.

I am.

It's nothing.

He knew she was hiding something. He thought of what to say, and then thought of how to say it. She felt calmer in the momentary silence, and she answered him.

What's the name of that strange man, the one with the birthmark on the back of his neck.

Birthmark?

Yeah. He's a strange man. He kept coming up to me saying he needed to talk about you, saying he needed to talk about some things, that there were things I needed to know. Every time he turned around to get a drink I saw his birthmark. It's quite noticeable. It stands out like a sore thumb. Ha. Funny that. It looks like a thumb. It looks like a long thick thumb. Weird that. It had the shape of a thumb, rounded and bell shaped at the top, but as long as a finger.

She giggled as she realised what she may as well have been describing.

He looked over at her, just a glance. Do you feel better now?

She nodded. She did indeed feel a little better. But then she thought about the man, and the strangeness of his conversation. She had never felt as uneasy as she did every time he came over to speak to her. He had told her to watch out. To keep her eyes open. He had said something about true faces matching true thoughts, and other things that she couldn't recall, but that she could feel. She didn't tell Garth everything, because she didn't want to upset him. The stuff that she had been told about Garth cheating, not cheating, she meant the allegations. See. See what a person can do when they implant an idea into your mind. She couldn't say anything because he would mistake a query for an accusation, and then she would mistake this for guilt. They drove on.

Garth and Rebecca lived at the bottom of a deep valley. From the top of a hill, when in the right spot, one had a view into their kitchen window. It was on this night that Kaleb Crawley sat on that hill and had such a view of the kitchen through the open blinds. He could see Garth and Rebecca. Kaleb cursed himself and the whole human race for having weaker ears than eyes. He wanted to see and to hear Garth and Rebecca now. He was sure that he knew from their body language what they were saying. He knew these things. He was an expert and had been for many years. Long years of late night study amid deep rabbit holes had equip him for expertise in body language, code breaking, and lock picking. He now thought of the latter. He would break into the house and rescue Rebecca.

The hill was quite steep, and as he walked sideways and slowly down into the valley, Kaleb had little thought on his mind but not twisting his ankle, Once he was on the flat of driveway that lead to the door he resumed his thoughts of conquest and the justifications for them. He had hated him before (he could never bear to say his name, or even to think it) and he hated him now. When he laid eyes on his sexual partner at the work party, however, he was enamoured. He didn't know her name, and if she had told him, he couldn't remember. Maybe he hadn't told her his name either. He remembered he had been too nervous.

He came to the door. Luck for him. A window was open just enough for him to squeeze through. He wouldn't need his lock picking skills after all. He put a balaclava over his face, tucked a long rope into his jacket pocket, and climbed through the window. It was dark. The occupants had gone to bed. Kaleb walked through the hall. It wasn't a large house, but in the dark it was a labyrinth. He came to a door. He had a plan all worked out. He knew that she would never come with him. Even though she agreed that she was married to a hypocrite and a liar, she would never agree to leave him. He would have to kill him, or drag her away. He opened the door and stormed inside. Immediately Garth got up. Kaleb was prepared. He took out the rope and draped it around Garth's neck like a snake coiling around a pole. He pulled tight. He lifted Garth off the ground with a demonic strength. He let go. Garth fell back to the ground, panting and wheezing. He recovered his breath, got back up on his feet, and ran at Kaleb. The two of them fell into a mirror, smashing it. FUCKING SHIT. One of them stepped on the glass. FUCK. They were both cut. The fight raged on in front of the audience of one, who screamed silently, more a breathless gasp than a scream. Finally, Kaleb managed to get the upper hand. He took a piece of glass and stuck it in Garth's back. By now the struggle had gone into the bathroom. Kaleb got up and went over to the mirror. Taking off his mask, the horror hit him. He stared at his reflection. He couldn't take his eyes off it. His reflection. It wasn't his reflection. It was. It was the one he hated. How was it possible. Kaleb stared into the mirror and yet the face of Garth reflected back at him. He bent down to the body, rolled it over, and saw that Garth had, as logic would suggest, indeed become Kaleb. It stands to reason, thought Kaleb , that even in such far fetched situations, there must be an internal logic. He realised the blessing that came with such preternatural horror. He was now what he hated. But being what he hated he could get what he wanted. He wouldn't be like Garth. He would be good. He would be honest. And even if he was to stray. She would forgive him. He danced a little jig. The joy of the moment helping to erase the pain of his cut feet. He bounded into the room, the hero of the hour. Rebecca, now able to, screamed. She jumped into his arms and held onto him tightly. He kissed her passionately.

Wait. We need to call the police.

He agreed. He turned to get his phone, and as he did, she saw the birthmark on his neck and screamed.

No. How is it possible. How is it possible.

And in her panic she picked up a shard of glass and stabbed it repeatedly into his face.

Kaleb came to at his desk. He looked at the screen clock. 15:00. He'd been out for an hour. He would have to learn how to better control his mind if he wanted to really live out the fantasy. Where had the birthmark come from. He didn't have a birthmark. Why had he imagined that. It was this little silly things that flooded the mind of the ill disciplined thinker. He would have to try again. He would meditate on it.