He sat there in silence, waiting. Nothing moving. The dust collected around him. If one were to walk into his house you’d be greeted with the stale fumes as though you had opened an ancient tomb. It wasn’t a tomb yet, though. The man was very much alive still. His name was Mitch, but he hadn’t had a need to say his name to anyone in a long time. Mitch was old, he barely had to eat because of how little he moved. He had no kids. His wife died years ago. Every morning he gets out of bed and gets dressed then waits in the living room. Never doing anything particularly interesting. The living room was littered with bookshelves; all filled with books he had read. There was nothing left to interest him. Long ago when he was young, he explored and went to parties, looked at beautiful paintings. He did everything he ever wanted. Now he just waits.
Mitch was a talkative man when he would talk. He could sit for hours just telling stories to his friends that he has no ability to see anymore. Boy, did he have stories. Anyone who met him thought he was fascinating. His adventures as a fisherman across the globe made for such conversation. Mitch had seen and done it all.
As his youth passed and he transitioned into adulthood he found himself in love. He married her and stayed by her side and loved her till the very end. Their differences only brought them closer. Each of them fascinated by the other. Of course, they had their fights, and nights where Mitch was sent to the couch, but if true love was real, it existed with them. Even if there was nothing to say they could just sit quietly next to each other holding hands, and it would be enough to entertain them. She’s gone now, though. All that is over.
When Mitch would sit on his chair for most of the day his mind wouldn’t wander. He wouldn’t look out the window or think about the complexities of the world. He would just sit and wait. No one ever knocked on the door. He would order delivery from the local grocery store and have them leave the food on the porch. For a long time, the workers thought the house was abandoned. No one ever saw Mitch. The bags seemed to just disappear. The house was a ruin. As though an ancient civilization had once thrived then suddenly disappeared in a whimper. To Mitch the house was just a pile of bricks organized into a place he could sleep. There was nothing else to it. It was just a house. Many people would find the place to be sentimental or a place where so much had happened. Its owner never took any pictures. There were none hung up on the walls and the bricks were left bare and decaying. It wasn’t messy or falling completely to pieces, it was just old, like Mitch.
Mitch wasn’t depressed or dying. In fact, he was perfectly healthy. He had taken care of himself, being sure to never smoke or drink in excess. Sickness was not a problem for him. In the few times he had ever gotten sick he recovered within a day. In his prime he was a runner. One long run in the morning and one as the sun scratched the surface of the horizon. He had perfect running form and ran so often he was never out of breath. He would greet and smile at everyone he met. His wife, however, was constantly sick. Always in need of comfort and care. She had perfected a soup that would make her feel better. A soup which Mitch took the time to master making. Every time he crept through the door with a steaming bowl of soup, she fell a little more in love with him. He did just the same when he would set it down in her lap and stroked her hair as she ate. She had a profound love for the mundane. Anything as simple as a weird crack in the sidewalk could keep her in awe. Mitch adored her worldview. If only he could see the tiny things she could. He was always more into people than things. He loved people but not nearly as much as he loved every second of being with her.
When she passed, Mitch kept busy by working. He became a carpenter. Her death wasn’t taken easily. Pound after pound of wood was spent trying to keep him occupied. Before he knew it, he had made so much money off his work he never had to do it again. His craftsmanship was superb and once word got out, he was able to get his own shop and become a businessman. He continued to craft things, but as time went on, he turned it into an art rather than a craft. He made beautiful structures and unique chairs, tables, stands, and bookshelves. Then his fingers began to hurt. He was getting old. The doctor assigned him pills to help with the pain. Instead, he opted to sell everything he had left except for the bookshelves.
Mitch set up each bookshelf in his house carefully. Each one was unique and could be distinguished from the other even from afar. Then he went to the bookstore and claimed as many books as he could carry. He placed them in a large unstable stack by his chair and began to read. Once he finished a book, he’d place it in the top left corner of the bookshelf. One book at a time; it filled like words in a book: left to right, one descending sentence after the other. So many colors and shapes filled day after day. Once he read a book on speed-reading there was no turning back. Soon the house was a mess of old pages and the air was filled with the smell of new books being quickly flipped from one printed paper to another. This went on for years until there was nothing left to read.
Finally, it hit him. He had not cried once since his wife passed. Like a hurricane taking off the roof of a weak house the emotions were exposed to the harsh storm outside the second he placed the last book on the last shelf. She was never coming back. He would never see her again. In all those pages he had read and adventures he had been on he was never able to lose himself like he would when he looked into her eyes. When he was finally able to stand, he went to wash his hands. When he looked at them, they were bony and wrinkled. Nothing like he remembered them. When he looked up at the mirror, he saw everything slip away. His sun-damaged skin and face that appeared to be melting crushed him. How old was he? He had lost track of the years since she passed. In his eyes there was nothing left for him to desire. No color left to be seen. He had no passion left.
If he were to speak all he would hear were the words of a stranger. His inner monologue was her voice. The man could only reminisce about his past. The future was a dead end. What more could he do? He did all he ever wanted. Money, love, health. A human with no goal may as well be nothing. Now he wakes up and waits. A clockwork man. The man at the end of his life just waits in his chair all day, every day, patiently waiting for the lights to go off.
Matthew Torres is a fourth year Film student at the School of Visual Arts. Matthew was born in raised in El Paso, Texas. He moved to New York with the hope of becoming a professional writer.