The Recluse

His mind scattered like a rigorsome jigsaw puzzle. Its pieces never seemed to fit together. Talking to people did not interest him, rather he sucked individuals dry of their meaning and purpose in life through the glimpse of an eye. He was full of richness, only that which came from old age. The wrinkles on his face were evidence to his experiences. As he pulled the dusty overdue mail from his rusty, rickety mailbox, raindrops dribbled from the solemn sky. The handprint markings on his letters drew obtuse and elongated. His plaid and checkered clothing combination smelled of instant coffee and pine trees. He walked towards the porch, turned and then sat with his back facing upwards on the wooden staircase. He pulled out a musty Cuban cigar from his wool dress jacket and lit it swiftly with a match.

He felt his purpose had been served. He delivered the message to people that they longed for: A solution to fill the void that lay inside of each one. The smoke rippled from his lips.

He had never been married, nor blessed a woman with his virginity. His main love was listening to the soundless activity of people reading in the city library. He fell in love with those seated behind windows in wooden chairs intently absorbing the many ideas written in library books.

He lived an outsider to this mankind, society-created world. He rarely spoke to anyone. Drawings into a tiny sketchbook illustrated his perception of the universe. He did not own a car. In his mind, he always rode one of the public yellow bikes to school that were welcome for use by anyone. In his drawings he depicted union versus individuality. Materialistic items were meant to be shared he believed. It was thoughts that could remain secret.

Grey clouds formulated and clustered above. It began to downpour. Kane, as everyone who saw him called him, stood, shielded his face from the dampness with his crusty mail, pivoted a half circle and walked into the house. He closed the door behind him, chain-locked it shut, and continued up three flights of stairs to his workspace, the attic.

There were five items on his rectangular wooden desk: a fountain pen, a tin coffee mug, a leather notebook bound shut by a string, a white wax candle, and some old matches with the logo ‘Catastrophe’ displayed on their box.

He leaned back in his brown, cracked leather arm chair as a chain of memories filled his mind. It was only three days ago, that his best friend Steve visited. He could no longer make out the contours of Steve’s face.

He sat staring at the colorless wallpaper of his room. Nothing was as vibrant and real as voices echoing off the walls, and as sitting across or next to another human being. He and Steve used to sit long hours in his room discussing the purpose of humanity on this earth and how society shapes human behavior and expectations. After 10 years of friendship, Steve and Kane’s relations deteriorated to nothing over an argument. Steve felt that Kane and he had no longer anything in common and that they were drifting apart. Every time Kane thought back to his last encounter with Steve, his stomach churned. He felt the need to throw up.

Kane somehow felt that this must be a challenge in his life, a lesson that must be learned, and a hardship that somehow he would overcome. He knew Steve so well; he could probably guess what he was doing at this very moment.

The smoke from yet another cigar floated upwards towards the ceiling. Its white coloration reminded Kane of the formation of clouds during the water cycle. Kane enjoyed experiencing any and all of the various emotions that a human being could feel. He sought out situations in which he could feel the spectrum of emotions, one after another.

One afternoon, on a snowy Saturday, Kane drove to a nearby dining club, where many of the local wealthy folk would take their dates. He sat right next to a middle-aged couple on the verge of a disastrous argument. As the argument erupted, Kane felt their angry, ferocious voices gnawing on his eardrums. The anger of the young couple grew within his own mind and he began screaming out obscenities. He got up, grabbed his coat off the back of his chair and left abruptly before his meal had even arrived.

On another occasion, Kane visited the nearby pool and watched as an unattended child lost contact with the shallow end. As it struggled for its life, bobbing its head up and down while gasping for exposure to the air, Kane felt the entanglement inside himself.

When Steve’s mother died, Kane stood across from her coffin during her funeral ceremony. His stomach collapsed, he could no longer swallow, and he stopped eating for one month, as if scarred into solitude for life.

Kane lit his white wax candle, clutched his pen. His fingers began to hastily jiggle as he pressed his pen tip onto the yellow crumpled pages of his leather notebook. Fresh black ink decorated the paper with his contemplations. His hand moved simultaneously to the rhythm of shuttering leaves outside.

Words, adjectives, nouns, English, French, and German grammar flowed joyously throughout his eager mind. He fed his loneliest urges through this imaginary yet real means. He was loved by thought, and thought loved him. He spent many a night staring at the ceiling above him, allowing his mind to race and then stopping it again in awe at the simple object above him.

He awoke famished. Kane lifted his head from his hard wooden desk and noticed the wax from his candle had drizzled down its legs. His journal was open to last night’s entry, the word "farewell" stood out from the page.