CaptainWacky
I want to smell dark matter
Charles Horse never thought it would be this bad. He'd actually thought it would be fun, in a way. Being alone, having nothing, nobody, no commitments. Just him and the tv. He could just lie in bed all day if he wanted, watching whatever there was, as the dark months went by. Isolation. Lockdown. What did it matter? He was Charles Horse, he had nobody anyway. He could just eat and watch and maybe even wank.
But he was so lonely now. So desperately lonely. A physical pain, it caused. He never expected that. He thought he could just feel nothing. Even if he had died he wouldn't have noticed. That's what he'd thought. But he felt it all, felt it on his body. Felt sick all the time. Had so many different and unusual symptoms, every day a new one. The shaking, that was nothing, he'd had that a long time. Running to the toilet from fear of living, that was getting worse. He didn't want to shit on the floor. His stomach making those awful noises, at all hours of the day and night? It was getting out of hand. His throat felt like it was closing up, he wondered if he could even breathe through his nose. Was his right leg about to stop working? Crazy stuff like that, but it all made sense at the time. It all terrified him.
He couldn't even enjoy just lying in bed watching Murder, She Wrote, not really. He'd always have to get up eventually, to pee if nothing else. Or his stomach would feel so bad he couldn't lie down, or he couldn't lie on his prefered side because he'd gone numb. And even if everything was perfect, time kept moving. Pulling him away from the moment. Even if he didn't get up in the morning, he still had to get up sometime. Nothing was forever. Just going to die.
Charles Horse cried from loneliness most evenings, sitting watching tv by himself. Nobody to comment on the shows to. What was the point? Even his online life barely took up much time. He'd reply to his friends, those few people on an obscure forum he'd tricked into thinking he had redeeming qualities, and then there would be nothing. A few minutes of interaction a day, if that. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
Sometimes he watched the really sad guy on the forum, the one who replied to himself with various fake names. Or the other guy, arguably even worse, who thought he was so much smarter than anyone else that he could just sit there all day calling everyone dumb, while contributing nothing of value himself. Surely they were as sad as him? Charles Horse wondered. They gave nothing away. Maybe they didn't think. Maybe they were intellectual zombies, with no interior life. Maybe Charles Horse was the only real person, the only one who could feel.
It seemed unlikely.
He watched the real people from his window sometimes. There always seemed to be couples walking by down below. Holding hands, arms around each other, sometimes arguing. They never looked up at him. He actually wanted them to. He wanted them to see him staring at them and think he was some kind of pervert. It would be something, at least. Some recognition. But they never noticed.
Charles Horse randomly ate a slice of toast.
He tried to find something to watch on youtube, even though his back hurt sitting on his chiar. He could watch youtube in bed, he realised. You can watch pretty much anything pretty much anywhere now. But he liked doing things in a certain way. Pointless traditions, meaningless routine. They used to help him. They weren't helping so much now. Still, they were all he knew.
Maybe he'd die in his sleep. That happened. Oh boy did that happen. He wouldn't have to get ill then. He wouldn't be able to handle being seriously ill. Needing stuff injected in his arms. He hated it. He could just refuse treatment and die, but then it would hurt. A painful death would not suit Charles Horse. So he would die in his sleep. Tonight. It would be like sleeping forever. He shut his eyes.
He woke up at 5am for no reason.
He got to sleep again. This time.
He woke up at 9am. It was Sunday. He tried to get back to sleep but nothing happened. So he got up. He did everything again. He felt less than before, at least. Less ill too. Maybe he was losing his interiority. Maybe he was becoming like them. Maybe none of it had ever mattered. Of course, he knew that. HE'd always known that.
What was he thinking about again?
But he was so lonely now. So desperately lonely. A physical pain, it caused. He never expected that. He thought he could just feel nothing. Even if he had died he wouldn't have noticed. That's what he'd thought. But he felt it all, felt it on his body. Felt sick all the time. Had so many different and unusual symptoms, every day a new one. The shaking, that was nothing, he'd had that a long time. Running to the toilet from fear of living, that was getting worse. He didn't want to shit on the floor. His stomach making those awful noises, at all hours of the day and night? It was getting out of hand. His throat felt like it was closing up, he wondered if he could even breathe through his nose. Was his right leg about to stop working? Crazy stuff like that, but it all made sense at the time. It all terrified him.
He couldn't even enjoy just lying in bed watching Murder, She Wrote, not really. He'd always have to get up eventually, to pee if nothing else. Or his stomach would feel so bad he couldn't lie down, or he couldn't lie on his prefered side because he'd gone numb. And even if everything was perfect, time kept moving. Pulling him away from the moment. Even if he didn't get up in the morning, he still had to get up sometime. Nothing was forever. Just going to die.
Charles Horse cried from loneliness most evenings, sitting watching tv by himself. Nobody to comment on the shows to. What was the point? Even his online life barely took up much time. He'd reply to his friends, those few people on an obscure forum he'd tricked into thinking he had redeeming qualities, and then there would be nothing. A few minutes of interaction a day, if that. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
Sometimes he watched the really sad guy on the forum, the one who replied to himself with various fake names. Or the other guy, arguably even worse, who thought he was so much smarter than anyone else that he could just sit there all day calling everyone dumb, while contributing nothing of value himself. Surely they were as sad as him? Charles Horse wondered. They gave nothing away. Maybe they didn't think. Maybe they were intellectual zombies, with no interior life. Maybe Charles Horse was the only real person, the only one who could feel.
It seemed unlikely.
He watched the real people from his window sometimes. There always seemed to be couples walking by down below. Holding hands, arms around each other, sometimes arguing. They never looked up at him. He actually wanted them to. He wanted them to see him staring at them and think he was some kind of pervert. It would be something, at least. Some recognition. But they never noticed.
Charles Horse randomly ate a slice of toast.
He tried to find something to watch on youtube, even though his back hurt sitting on his chiar. He could watch youtube in bed, he realised. You can watch pretty much anything pretty much anywhere now. But he liked doing things in a certain way. Pointless traditions, meaningless routine. They used to help him. They weren't helping so much now. Still, they were all he knew.
Maybe he'd die in his sleep. That happened. Oh boy did that happen. He wouldn't have to get ill then. He wouldn't be able to handle being seriously ill. Needing stuff injected in his arms. He hated it. He could just refuse treatment and die, but then it would hurt. A painful death would not suit Charles Horse. So he would die in his sleep. Tonight. It would be like sleeping forever. He shut his eyes.
He woke up at 5am for no reason.
He got to sleep again. This time.
He woke up at 9am. It was Sunday. He tried to get back to sleep but nothing happened. So he got up. He did everything again. He felt less than before, at least. Less ill too. Maybe he was losing his interiority. Maybe he was becoming like them. Maybe none of it had ever mattered. Of course, he knew that. HE'd always known that.
What was he thinking about again?
