I used to wonder why humans existed-not in
a desperate way, just logically.
We wake up, we work, we suffer, we pretend, and then we die. A cycle, nothing
more.
People talk about purpose, about meaning, but in the end, we're just passing
through, waiting for it all to end.
I never feared death. If anything, I
understood it. It's the only thing in this world that's fair.
It doesn't wait. It doesn't discriminate. It just takes.
Like it took my mother.
Did she see it coming? Did she try to
fight? Or did she accept it for what it was-an inevitability?
I never got to ask. One moment she was there, the next, she wasn't.
Just another reminder that life doesn't care about fairness.
Life is a scam. A cruel joke with no
punchline.
People lie to themselves, thinking if they work hard, if they love hard, if
they try hard, they'll be happy.
But happiness is just a distraction, a drug to keep people from realizing the
truth.
I don't chase it. I don't need it.
Dad tells me, "Jer, go out, have fun,
laugh a little. You only live once, son."
What a stupid thing to say. We live every
day. We only die once.
The sky is gray today. The sun hides behind
thick clouds, as if it knows the world doesn't deserve its light.
I glance at my watch-five o'clock. The park is almost empty, except for two
kids on the swings.
The boy pushes too hard, falls off, and starts crying. His sister runs to him,
worried. Then he grins.
"Gotcha," he says, laughing.
She scowls but then laughs too. Carefree.
Oblivious.
I shake my head. Happiness is for
children.
I pack my things, tossing my brushes into a
half-filled bottle of water to keep the paint from drying.
I glance at my painting-an egg cracking open, but instead of a chick, a rock
emerges.
A smirk tugs at my lips. Not everything
that's born is meant to live.
With my bag slung over my shoulder and the
painting in hand, I head home.
---
The scent of food hits me the second I step
inside. My stomach twists. I haven't eaten all day.
Dad only has one real skill, and that's cooking.
Lisa runs up to me and grabs my leg.
"Jer, you're back!"
She's too small for an actual hug, so I
lift her. She giggles, kicking her legs in the air.
"How's my queen?" I ask.
"Princess!" she corrects,
pouting. "I'm only seven."
"Forgive me, Your Highness," I
say. She nods, satisfied.
"Dad's making dinner today," she
announces proudly.
"I figured."
I set her down and walk into the kitchen.
Dad is at the stove, stirring something in a pan.
"Smells good," I say, my voice
flat.
"You had fun?" he asks.
"No."
He chuckles. "I'll never get used to
how you talk."
"Then stop trying."
"Not a chance," he smirks.
"Set the table."
I grab the plates. Three, not four. It's
been that way since Mom died.
Dad never talks about it. He just quietly
removed the extra chair, as if pretending she was never there would make the
emptiness hurt less.
He even packed away her photos. Maybe to protect Lisa. She doesn't remember
much. But I do.
Not that it matters.
Dinner is quiet. Lisa talks, Dad listens, I
exist. Afterward, I wash the dishes while Dad leans against the counter.
"Jer, you remember Mrs. Lily?" he
asks.
"Vaguely."
"She passed away a couple of weeks
ago."
I pause. "And?"
"Her funeral is tomorrow. We're
invited."
"We're going?"
He gives me a look. Of course, we are.
"She asked for you,
specifically."
I frown. "Why?"
"No idea. Guess you'll find out
tomorrow."
I nod, but I don't think about it. Not
really.
Later that night, I sit on my bed, staring
at my wall of paintings. Some are mine, some are the world's. My gaze drifts to
today's piece, deciding whether it belongs.
I take down an old one-a sunset, two
silhouettes holding hands. It used to mean something. Now, it's just paint. I
replace it with the egg.
People expect life. Sometimes, they get a
rock instead.
Maybe that's what I am. A mistake in a
world that thought it had me figured out.