They Look Like Us

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
He doesn't belong.

Submitted: September 08, 2019

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Submitted: September 08, 2019

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He walked down the street with a face as if he’s seen something diabolical. Wading through the sea of flesh that exists before him. People walking all around, beside him, crossing the street, on their phones, using headphones, talking, laughing, listening, spacing out, jogging, sprinting, drinking, eating, in groups, in pairs, by themselves. The noise pollution was surrounding him, encasing him in an annoying smog. He tries to ignore it all, to focus on his breath, on the floor, but it doesn’t work. They’re looking at him. Smiling, staring, laughing. Showing their teeth, their fangs. He doesn’t like it. He feels the pressure and the burning hot stings of the people looking at him. He holds his breath. Wishes it can all go away. It feels like he’s in the wrong planet. An outcast, an alien. He walks like them, talks and looks like them. But he doesn’t feel like them.

Crossing the concrete maze of the city streets where the monsters happily crawl in their own filth. Debris scatters the floors as byproducts of the existence of humans. Wrappers of various shapes and sizes and of different consumables. Food, discarded containers, plastics, strings and linens, pieces of wood and steel. Garbage. Everywhere and ever present. A sharp reminder of a world once beautiful and now lost in a storm of consumerism. Garbage bins always nearly bursting, mirroring humanity.

He looked at them, with their flesh holes either destroying something or producing waves of annoying sounds. He bites his lip harder and harder until it bleeds. Thinking about the people around him, living to their fullest potential, while he drifts through life as a specter. People looking through him, going through him, talking at him. The words seem to fade as it reaches his body. He is becoming a ghost. He tries to get out. Tries to find a place with less people, a place for reflection. A place to go to before he explodes. Before he spills out his deepest darkest intentions, before anyone else sees him like this. He grips onto the walls of buildings and light posts to gain some bearing. He sweats through his clothes. He looks around again. A dizzying blur of faces and colors. Smiling, laughing, staring, talking, screaming, different sights, sounds and smells. He wants to go home. This planet isn’t fit for him.

He takes off his clothes in his bedroom. He stands there, his scarred naked body looming over the bed. A deathly, but comforting silence. No more laughing, talking, screaming, staring, no more sights, sounds, colors, smells, no more garbage, no more faces. He sees darkness as he closes his eyes. A very calming, deep black where he feels at home. He touches the top of his head with both hands and begins to tear himself apart. The top of his head splitting open and peeling like a ripe fruit. He brings his skin down towards his feet, lifts his legs up, and steps away. The texture beneath it all is a hideous green. His eyes, black as death. Teeth as sharp as razors. He looked above him and with one massive breath he let out a monstrous growl deep enough to shake buildings. Relief at last. He falls onto his bed and goes to sleep and wipes his mind of everything that has happened.

A momentary relief, as the next day was a new day. A new skin. But the same world.


© Copyright 2019 Manolo. All rights reserved.

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