Once upon a time there was a little man. This little man was an ugly little man. His face was not beautiful like the others in the land, and he would cry himself to sleep in his small straw bed and hope that tomorrow all his suffering would end. But that little ugly man kept waking up. Every morning. And every night he would go to bed with the same stupid wish. To have everything stop. But this world is cruel. And this god is often cruel as well. And so the little man continued on, being ugly, being alone, and being so close to the edge of himself. One morning he woke up. Ugly. Alone. And on the edge. And he sat up in his bed, his hands curled in his coarse, harsh covers. And he sighed. A deep sigh that filled his tiny little room. He had made it to another day. Dammit. He got up from his straw bed, ready to suffer through another agonizing day of loneliness and pain. 'Stupid me.' He thought. 'Why did I ever think that I would be able to stop?' He washed his face in sink, rubbing away all the sleep. Then he began to rub harder. A little bit harder. But nothing. He couldn't tear his face away. Couldn't tear away at himself. All the dirt and grime and ugliness were stuck. He gave up, drying his face off in a dirty towel. He looked up at the wall where the mirror had been. But he had broken it. It was of no use to him. He knew he could never change. Or become pretty. Or become loved. And he didn't need a mirror to reinforce it. The ugly man made himself breakfast, stabbing his fork into his hard and burnt pancakes. He never really learned how to cook. It hit him once again that he had survived through another night. There was no merciful god. There was no understanding deity. There was no caring monk. There was just him. His burnt pancakes. And more days to dread. He finally went to work, this ugly little man, in his dirty business suit and moth eaten tie. The people at his office never stared or cared about the way that he looked. They even went so far as to tell him how good of a job he was doing. They just mocked him with their pretty words and soft eyes. He ate his lucnh amidst his coworkers. In the middle of the table surrounded by beautiful people talking about their perfect lives. He chewed his sandwich. And then he went back to work. And his pretty intern smiled at him and gave him a quick handjob in the printing room. But everything was still ugly and corrupted. And he just wanted to go home and die. But he knew once he got there, that he wouldn't be allowed to die in his sleep. Maybe... Maybe it was time to take some action. He sat at his desk with a very blank look, drawing hard circles on the calender on his desk. The tip of his pencil broke and he blinked. And he smiled. That was it. Everything that he had waited for he could make come to him. He brimmed with excitement. Oh the possibilities! There were pills. And razors. Knives. Rope. Tape. Scarves. Poison. He just couldn't wait to get home. And when the crystal clock delicately signalled out that it was five he rushed home. The ugly little man was so happy. So wonderfully happy. But he would eat first. He put down his briefcase and started the oven, then he reached to undo his tie. But he stopped, stroking the rough cloth between his fingertips. And then he tightened it a little. And a little more. And then a something so similiar to a hard punch came rushing into his throat. A little tighter. His eyes watered. Just a bit more. There were pretty little sparkles in the corner of his eyes, and then a black mist. Tighter still. He giggled. Or...at least he would have if he could have breathed. Tighter. The blood was screaming in his ears and he smiled, falling down to his knees as he wrapped the moth eaten cloth around his fingers and pulled away. Tighter. He gurgled and grinned and collapsed. And in a few hours... He woke up. Ugly. Alone. And on the edge, just with a purple ring around his throat. And the oven on fire. 'Dammit!' And he stood up, the tie loosening a bit. He went to the bathroom to get his tub of water. And on his way back to the burning stove. He paused. Fire. Sure thing to do it. And he put down the tub. And edged close to the stove. Waiting patiently for his old clothes to catch fire. But nothing. He waited some more and the fire spread to the counter beside the oven. Nothing. He frowned. The fire caught onto the rag hanging from the refrigerator door. Still nothing. He stamped his foot. 'Fuckin' hell.' He growled and clenched his fists. And then he spotted one of his steak knives. And then fire burned behind him. The knife...it should do the trick. So he grabbed the knife and sawed at his wrist, the dullness only tearing at the soft skin. Ragged spots began to bleed but nothing serious enough for him to rejoice in. 'Dammit!' He sighed and twisted the knife back and forth in his hand. He gave up. Might as well live his pathetic life. His stupid. Ugly. Boring life. He turned to put the knife down, next to the burning counter. His tripped on his broken tile. The knife caught on the edge and tore through worn fabric, chunky skin, soft tissue, and a heart. ... "Oh." The End |
| Ugly Man by: V |