It starts with a loss, always a loss, it could be the loss of a family member, a pet, but it doesn’t have to be a living thing, it could be the loss of love, of friendship, of sanity.
You mourn, it could be for hours, for days, weeks, months, years, your entire life, you tell yourself “I’m gonna make myself happy tomorrow.” But it doesn’t happen, you put it off, again, and again, as you slowly notice that your mental state is deteriorating, you realize, it’s too late.
You decide to go out, you need groceries, and air, you stick on black clothes, cloaking your sadness, you take a walk in the park, that should cheer you up, right? You see a young couple, sitting on a bench, talking, laughing, happy, the man stands up, reaching into his hip pocket, he produces a small blue velvet box, he gets on one knee, he opens the box, there is a small golden ring, with a small clear diamond in the middle, the girl covers her mouth, tears are welling in her eyes, she stands up, pushes him over, into the mud, and runs away, you laugh, for the first time in a long time, you laugh.
You receded back to your dingy apartment with milk, you open your small fridge and sit down in front of the TV, the news is on, someone’s been murdered, someone’s life ended, they shows pictures, you should have felt sad, like most people, but you soon realise, you are no longer most people, you find amusement in others pain, you find comfort in knowing others are worse off than you.
You wake up early, you need to go to work, you throw your stained white chef gown in a duffel bag and run to the bus, the air in the bus is stale, and it stinks of fish, the woman behind you had a child on her lap, it was young, and it was crying, you tried to drown it out, you can’t, it’s like torture, “SHUT THE FUCK UP” you yell, making the bus go silent, the child continued screaming, you notice that the restaurant is just ahead, you stand up, getting bad looks from all the passengers, you walk off the bus, ready to start the long, monotonous day.
You put on your work clothes and walk into the kitchen, the steam from the food burns your eyes, anothe chef who is extremely annoying puts his arm around you, “busy weekend,” he jeers, “of course not, your a hermit who never leaves his apartment”, you’ve had enough, you grab a knife from a nearby chopping board and shove it into his neck, laughing uncontrollably, watching as the takes his last few gasps for air