When I wake up in the morning, I immediately rush to the toilet to puke out the filth that I call "yesterday." My throat was on fire and my nostrils had to endure the putrid smell of bile for as long as I couldn't keep my head away from the toilet bowl. This daily ritual leaves my mind empty for just a little while, and then it's back to the monotony of my life. My attempts to make breakfast are always foiled by my own clumsiness. One might think that a bachelor at my age would know how to cook for himself, but nobody's ever shown me the correct way to do it. Not that I care. Living alone means the only person who might complain about the burnt pancakes is me. Food is food. I only need enough to keep my body from passing out.
When I was a child, my father and I would take long walks in the woods. He always tried to be a philosopher and made sure I grew up wiser. One day, he told me that the basest desires of all human beings are the qualities of angels. People want immortality, flight, beauty, artistic skill, or quite simply, to be a member of God's favorite species. Then he asked me, "What do you think angels want?"
I thought about it, but I didn't have an answer for him at the time. I haven't seen or heard from him for so many years, now I wish there was some way I could answer him.
Today, I was out of breath. It took every ounce of effort I had to catch the bus that morning. But as I stood in front of the fare box, I realized I had forgotten my wallet again. "Ahh. Shit," I cursed under my breath. The bus driver could obviously see that I was fumbling around in my pockets, looking for a wallet that I knew wasn't there. Maybe he was waiting for me to say something.
"Hey man, can you let me on just this once?" I pleaded. He didn't even bother to look at my face directly, he simply shook his head. As I sighed and got off the bus, I realized I must look like a wreck. I was unshaven and my hair was messy. My clothes looked ruffled and I probably smelled like alcohol. "He must have thought I was a hobo or something," I figured. I looked down at my watch. "Looks like I'm going to be late again..." I said.
I didn't like walking around in this city. A few years ago, a man held a gun to my back. He said, "Don't turn around, or I'll shoot." Naturally, my first instinct was to turn around. I was probably halfway turned by the time he had finished his sentence. Suffice to say, the chain of reactions went from the sound of a gunshot, to falling to the ground, and then to the man checking my pockets. It's ironic, but that was one of the few days that I brought my wallet. It didn't bother me too much though. If the robber had taken a second look at me, he would have realized I wouldn't have much money. I took a few minutes to gather my senses, but by then a crowd had gathered around me. The squeamish women would scream at the pool of blood and the self-righteous men would argue over what the best course of action would be. I swear, one guy said to pour vodka on my wound to sterilize it, and then set it on fire to close the wound. I feared idiocy much more than blood loss, so I slowly got up, and then I booked it. The women were probably screaming about zombies while the men were probably arguing whether it was a miracle or a fluke. I was glad to get away in time. Ambulance rides were rather expensive.
Luckily, today I didn't bump into any trouble. I briskly walked into the office building. My boss had so many more important things to do other than yell at me, but I think he was simply using me as an outlet for his anger issues. "If he's so fed up with me, why hasn't he fired me yet?" I thought to myself.
"How long do I have to put up with this!?" he yelled, "Aren't you old enough to take responsibility for your actions!? And when was the last time you showered!?" These were probably rhetorical questions, so I don't answer. After his rant is done, I apologize and head to my station. As I changed into my janitor uniform, it occurred to me that I had been working here for too long. I was used to moving around a lot, and I only needed enough wages so I don't have to sleep on a park bench. It was hard to make a living in this country without proper identification.
I had an identity that I had rehearsed over and over again. To anyone who asked, my name was Michael. I moved to America from the Europe. I was never specific about which country, mainly because I wasn't good with geography. Since I didn't have a green card, it was very difficult to get a job, so I had to cheat the system in whatever way I could. Over the past six years, whenever anyone had asked me my age, I would always say twenty-seven. I didn't make friends, but even if I did, I wouldn't allow them to visit my house or see me outside of work.
"Watch where you're going!" the woman in front of me said. While lost in my thoughts, I had accidentally knocked her down. As if to reaffirm my thoughts, it just had to be Georgia that I bumped into. Georgia was a nice girl, probably in her mid-twenties. When I first started this job she flirted with me often, but I never responded in any way other than in a polite manner. The sad thing is, I would probably have found her fairly attractive if I wasn't a eunuch. A few years of rejection from a lowly janitor might have made her a little bitter. I've tried to make peace with her, but she would always just get angrier. Since then, I've kept my appearance as unkempt as possible. Without the baggy clothes or stubble, I was a little too handsome for normal people to look at. I figured the less I'm noticed, the better.
A few centuries back, it wasn't uncommon for people to be burned at the stake for little to no reason. If a person did anything strange, they would be seen as possessed or as a witch. I think that was around the first time I realized I shouldn't get close to people. As the years went by, people realized that I never aged. Whispers amongst the town eventually gave rise to torches and pitchforks. Burning alive might be the most painful experience I've ever faced. After I was completely cremated, it literally took weeks of agony before I rose up from my own ashes. From that point on, I made sure not to live in the same place for more than a decade or so.
Flopping onto my bed after a long day at work is almost enough of a reward that I don't hate this pitiful life. I stare at the multitude of pill bottles on my nightstand. "Maybe I'll try the cyanide tonight..." I think to myself. After an endless amount of failures, I've given up trying to end my life. Now I take these pills because I knock out faster. I like the empty-headed feeling I have in the morning, but mainly, being dead for a few hours makes it so I don't have to dream. I was kicked out of my last apartment for screaming too loud during my night terrors. As I searched through the bottles, however, I realize they were all empty. "Damn, I forgot to restock," I mutter. Well, I had been tight on cash this month, so I suppose something had to suffer. I could only sigh and try going to sleep the old-fashioned way, for the first time in almost a decade.
Sleep took me quicker than I thought. I'm glad that I wasn't have a nightmare though. It was weird. I dreamt of being a forest, talking to my father. "So, what do you think angels want?" he asked me. I had rehearsed my answer in my head for too many years to need to stop and think about it, "An angel wants to be like a human. If God had two sons named Angel and Man, then Angel would be the one who was whipped into following all the rules and eventually taking over the family business. Meanwhile, Man was free to do whatever he wanted. Humans have a kind of freedom that lets them fly to where angels only dream of. They can attain beauty and art that surpasses our limits. Humans get to treasure life, because it's fleeting, because they have the gift of death. Really father, an angel just wishes it could be a member of God's true favorite species."
