It was a Monday, bluer than any other.
Joseph sat behind his typewriter. The old oak chair he sat upon creaked every time he leant back, the sound frequently pricking through the tapestry of silence he had hung in his room.
Writing wasn’t his job, but he enjoyed typing on his old typewriter and pretending as if he was still young enough to chase his once flourishing, now somewhat runtish dream.
Joseph worked a 9-5 job, stacking files, putting numbers into spreadsheets, sometimes making coffee for the boss and tripping over extension leads and yet, despite the monotony, he led a fairly satisfying life. At least to himself.
See, he thought he had nothing to worry for, arriving home at around 6 after loitering around his workplace for an after-work cup of coffee, chattering to his workmates and then taking the relaxing train journey home.
As soon as he got home, he brushed his teeth so that the coffee wouldn’t stain them yellow, and went upstairs to write his epic saga that he had become proud of. Every night, he created worlds that humans could never reside in. They were tales spun with magic and ogres, elves and flames that could be conjured with a blink, majestic mountains that rained fire at the peak instead of snow, nothing was impossible.
Little did he know, in his basement, his real world was far too different to the imaginary.
While he was typing away at his typewriter,
the boy he left downstairs was rotting.
He had forgotten about his child.
In a random moment of heightened fervour, Joseph had an epiphany.
Words came to him almost like a memory as he hastened to write them down.
‘ Daddy, it’s cold and I’m scared, can I eat n- ‘
and before he could finish writing, he launched his body through the window, shattering the glass and splattering his brains onto the sidewalk.
The papers he had typed were wet with tears.
he no longers has fantasies.