Alone he wakes up. Early by one alarm, out of bed by a third. Exhaustion hangs like weights from the bottom of his eyes, later to be combated by caffeine from a local coffee shop. First he checks the little one-eyed demon beside his bed, peering at updates and laughs from the people he knows but not really knows. He types something under the guise of the hyena. Wanting to elicit laughter or a playful brattiness he’s too fearful to bring out in the physical world.
The weekend stretches before him but no plans come forward. What ideas were discussed before had vanished without a trace. Daily he scrolls through one app or another, finding himself wanting someone to embrace. To share his feelings with, confide, and not feel like a freak.
The disappointment lags like a collar and leash, far from the kind he’d want to wear. He should go out, he tells himself but knows not where. The crowds and music make socializing a nightmare, and anything he’d like is taken by a day already occupied. Sometimes these are just excuses, mere shrugs used to keep himself from doing any sort of change. Others they are truths, painful reminders that his fear holds him stuck in a city where he knows no one close. Nor would anyone know of him. Except his employer, which would send call after call if he somehow stopped rising every morning, firing him before anyone came to check.
He puts on a mask. A fragile one that does not hide his feelings as much as he is told it should. Before he lived with his emotions on his sleeves, where he had companions to share with in person. Before he knew at least one he could be with physically, one he treated with neglect out of his own fear of commitment.
The mask holds at work. It slips to a hyena whenever scrolling through the tiny square demon in his hands. The little imp demands attention, as do the two eyes staring down with excel sheets covering them. Between the work he flips through specialized programs to find someone, anyone, to pull him from his loneliness. Parts of him want to explore other avenues, but he chokes up the moment the stars align. The bearer of the hyena is unsure if he could enjoy in real life what fiction he embraces.
Few answer the swipe of his finger. Most become walls where only he carries the conversation with questions and topics. It’s draining, but he tries, wanting a companion to warm him and tell him things are alright. When one converses back, hope springs. Then they vanish, turning euphoria into despair he’s unsure how to fix.
The day ends and he heads home, casting off his public persona to drive down winding roads, one-second from a crash just to make time for himself. Time to slam his head at a keyboard over and over to create something without any idea of where it might go, if ever. He sees the same outcome again and again, watching another screen while reheating meals just to save time. Time that keeps running away from him, with the last decade wasted by fear and inaction.
Fear from him.
He goes to bed, alone, somedays wishing for someone to pull him out of the abyss of his own creation. But only he can do it. Despite the darkness and void of life, he finds the shadows too comforting as a blanket to wrap around him. He is afraid and cackles, somehow still not crying as he fades into nowhere.
