Two a.m., smokey city. Rows of street lamps with burnt orange lights highlighted the smog that drifted through the air, the bugs that existed only until those lamps burned out, and the weary travellers departing from the metro's last train. Burnt orange lit the sidewalk caked with gum and grime and the burnt orange dust that drifted from the construction zone nearby, leading the way for those travellers as they dragged themselves home. At the metro's last stop, only a handful of travellers remained. By the third block down, there was only one traveller, walking alone.
Vexen hated his job.
Working twenty-hour shifts was not one of the requirements listed on the job application, but Vexen never complained. He couldn't. Not with the sort of pay he was getting, and not with his current...circumstances. It held far too much prestige on the surface; finding another job in such a crowded city was difficult enough, let alone trying to find one that let him make good use of his Ph.D. Never mind the consequences -- the dark bags beneath his eyes, cramped fingers and aching wrists from so much writing, the way pain wriggled its way between each and every vertebrae, leaving him in a permanent slouch, and the fact that he never, ever finished until well past midnight -- it was a matter of responsibility. He had no choice but to bite back his pride and offer fake smiles in lieu of criticism. Oh, he would complain once he got home, alright, but never on the job. Yes, he was under-appreciated, and yes, he was overworked, but all he could do was keep such sentiments bottled up inside and keep up the kowtowing and brown-nosing that kept the flow of green coming in.
Perhaps what was worse, though, was that he had no one to complain to when he did get home. Because it was two in the morning. Because he never actually got to see the light of day -- just the smokey purple of early morning smog, the burnt orange of dirty street lamps, and the not-light-nor-dark-grey walls that caged him in the lab. It was a thankless, miserable job, and all he wanted was someone to come home to, and even that was denied him. Because at two in the morning, he was the last one awake. And at six in the morning, he was the first one awake, and the first to leave -- before any hellos, goodbyes, I love yous. He was simply never around to hear them.
He couldn't remember when he last had a day off. He couldn't remember the last time he got a word of praise, or even the slightest acknowledgement of his genius. He couldn't remember ever being acknowledged at all, beyond strict necessity involving the comings and goings of paperwork. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard "how are you?" directed his way, even insincere, let alone any voice with an ounce of care for his well-being. It was if he didn't exist at all.
He was a nobody.
Less than a nobody.
And he was starting to forget his purpose.
All of it was like clockwork. Clockwork jobs required clockwork employees, and Vexen was no different. Wind up in the morning and keep turning the key every hour every page every minute every sentence every second every blink coffee lunchtime soda snacking soda snacking coffee pressure pressure pressure deadlines telephones deadlines meetings deadlines slide after slide page after page hour after hour overtime midnight one a.m. catch a train -- slow. Stop. Unwind. Except by two in the morning, he was so pent up (and so exhausted) there was no way for him to unwind. Time seemed to stop for the hour-long ride home, and still he couldn't relax. It was gone in a blink. Too much thinking, too much fretting, and then he had a fifteen minute walk all the way back home.
Behind the madness was the ever-weakening drive of I must. Every now and then his tired mind would give birth to a fleeting dream, the idea that there could be something better elsewhere. And just as soon as he would start to dream it, reality would come crashing down in the form of a passing car, a lamp burning out, a barking dog, an intrusive thought about expenses. Worry. Fretting. Always so worried about the future, and the future never looked more bleak. All he wanted was to escape.
Nobodies existed only through memories of better times, and the hope that they could attain happiness once more. No, happiness wasn't the right word. Feeling. Because a clockwork life robbed them of feeling, of happiness, sadness, anger, all of it, and left only apathy, an emptiness that couldn't be conquered. Vexen walked a thin line between success and failure -- between life and death, when it came right down to it, and nothing seemed to offer any chance at leaning one way or the other. He was in-between. And nothing mattered.
Nothing matters to a man who has lost his purpose.
Home was on the fourth floor of a building with no elevator. Two flights of stairs to each floor, eight steps each. Vexen counted them every single time, if only as a distraction from everything else. Was it worth it? This meager existence of constant denial? The rat in the wheel, running forever and getting nowhere? What did it accomplish? What could it possibly...
Stiff fingers fumbled for the key, creaking when they curled around it, shaking when he slid it in the lock. A gentle turn, a click, and he braced his elbow up against the door to push it open. The hinges were just a little too low, or they were angled odd, or -- he couldn't quite figure out what it was, but the door sank about half an inch into the floor and it just needed a little shove. A dark streak in the carpet followed the arc of the door, worn down from so much use, and it looked uglier in the burnt orange light. It filtered in through the blinds, illuminating the room in neat bars.
And as always, there were subtle changes since he'd last left; signs of life that existed only in his absence, like the bugs that existed only beneath the lamps. A few more dishes were in the sink. More clothes were in the laundry basket. A jacket was strewn across the back of the couch, on the opposite side of where it had been in the morning. Two pairs of shoes were scattered across the floor, sand encrusted on their bottoms.
Another seashell lay on his desk.
Vexen's gaze stayed on that seashell for more than a few seconds before he passed it by. The vague thought of 'I hope they enjoyed themselves' manifested more as an abstract than anything coherent, a flicker of emotion in an otherwise static mind. Too tired to make anything of it. So long as they had some modicum of happiness, his work was justified. So long as they were happy, he could continue his wretched existence. No complaints.
His steps quieted when he passed their rooms, closed doors indicating they had long fallen asleep. Their days were tiring too, after all, and while they didn't know the sort of fatigue that came with such an unforgiving job (God forbid they ever learned), they still needed their rest. Maybe next time, I can go with them. Except Vexen didn't know the next day he'd have off, if he even could take a day off anytime soon; if he would be called in for more overtime, if the weather would be too poor -- even with everything in his favor, he might not have the energy to enjoy a day at the beach. Reality was calling. It came in the form of closed doors, of a row of seashells on his desk, of never ever being there: they had lives of their own. Without him.
Vexen returned to his room
and found
them.
Two figures, much smaller in stature, lying across his bed with limbs entangled. The sheets hung off the edge, barely covering their feet, and the crumpled pillows sat together on the floor, obviously abused victims of a pillow fight. Still clothed, the two looked like they had simply slipped from wakefulness directly into sleep, succumbing to exhaustion despite waiting so long. She lay on her side, one arm slung around her brother's waist, her head against his chest, face shielded by a curtain of black hair. And he, being so gangly and masculine, emphasized his sister's petite and girlish charms by looking completely undignified, lying sprawled on his back, limbs akimbo but for the arm pillowed under his head, silver bangs obscuring his closed eyes.
For a moment, Vexen stood in the doorway, waiting for something to happen. It was his first glimpse of them in...how long had it been? How long had it been since he had seen his saltwater-green eyes? Her deep sky blues? How long had it been since he last heard their voices?
He wanted them to wake. He considered making some kind of noise to stir them, maybe even be so bold as to call their names. Watch their eyes slid open, blink free of sleep, and then...he didn't know. Would he get a smile from her? A hug? A frown? Averted eyes, sealed lips? A "welcome home" seemed far too much to ask. It could be anything. A grumble, a complaint for being woken up so early, a smart remark from the boy or even a full-blown fight. He wanted it. He wanted to be yelled at, to have hands that weren't cramped and shaking, never knew the stress of real life, to grab him by his too-white lab coat and shake him stupid, have that boy scream at him until he went deaf, for not being there, for never being there.
"We waited for you!"
Or in a quieter, more delicate voice.
"We waited for you. For so long, we waited..."
They didn't stir.
And he didn't have the heart to wake them.
Without a sound, Vexen gently closed the door and walked back to the empty living room. He could stand a four hour nap on the couch, sleep was sleep. But Vexen didn't walk to the couch. Maybe it was the deterrent of a jacket strewn on its corner, or maybe he knew before he even closed his eyes that sleep would never come. Instead, he sat down at his desk, picked up the seashell from a beach he'd never seen, stared at it until his vision grew hazy and it became hard to breathe.
His world was not one of blue skies and saltwater.
Alone, Vexen cried for a world he would never see.