Short piece of writing focused on a very depressing idea. It didn't turn out quite how I wanted it to, so I suppose I could always rewrite it later. But for now, I can't be bothered.

There's an old grey chair in the corner with all the stuffing missing. And there's a light bulb that swings from the ceiling; he never bothered to get a lampshade. Then there's that table with the paint that's peeling off. It's quite battered now but is still useable. The windows are filthy, caked with grime and dust. He won't allow the light in; it stings his skin. He seems to remember the walls being a dull shade of white; there are probably great big cracks running along them.

There's the television in the corner. The screen's been smashed and the broken glass had been allowed to lie there ever since. Most of the furniture in the room is worn and broken. Rare moments of combined anger and rediscovered strength mean that many of the objects in the room have been rendered useless.

Kids come by sometimes, tapping at the windows and the knocking on the door, throwing stones, trying to see if they can be the first one to get him out of his chair. He's too weak to get out of it now, but he shouts and yells all the swear words he can still remember. They just laugh at him; he can't do anything at all slumped in that cushioned prison.

Sometime…

Someday he'll be removed from that chair after taking his last breath.

It's a wonder he's still alive. Even the oldest tenants can't remember a time when he wasn't there. In all those years, no one's ever spoken to him. Well, council people came round once, eons ago, but he told them to all fuck off and he slammed the door on them. They didn't really make any more effort to speak to him. He's just one crabby man with an attitude problem that no one really wants to know about. Anonymity is a harsh freedom.  

He's a funny old man, so weak now. But not helpless. He won't ask for it. He's a stubborn ghost that refuses to crawl out of his hole. His home is filled with silence that suffocates any feelings of happiness. He's totally blind in one eye, and the sight's not much better in the other. All he does is sit in his chair day after day, counting the minutes, the hours. That's all he'll ever do until he's finally wasted away.

And he's wasting away rapidly. His ribs are jagging through his wrinkled skin. And the mouth is tight from a lack of regular use. He doesn't really eat any more; there's no need. Life is just one long road to the end now. One long journey with a numbing pain dragging him to the grave.

The dust has been collecting for many years. There's a thin layer of dust on his eyelashes, in his ears, and dust all over folded into the creases of his skin. The room's a musty shrine, so holy and dark where noise is banished and the crawling of dawn never wakes.

The world passes by without a moments thought.  The air is cold but he can't feel it anyway.

She's so pretty. An encased moment locked in a frame forever. If alive, horrified at the deterioration of his soul. But instead, she's smiling brightly, holding a little baby girl in her arms and her son standing by her side. His finger traces over her hair, her eyes, her mouth... He doesn't need to see; He knows every little detail.

It's all detached from time. Broken away from the intricate web of life, there's nothing to alert him to the existence of the outside. And that's the way he'll keep it. Memories are painful; all they do is constantly shove in his face how it used to be. There used to be a family. Helping to save the world, even if he didn't like to admit it. There used to be… There used to be strength. Power. All at his fingertips.

Memories are painful. Images of a life left behind forever, cruel reminders of past glories and faces. His body yearns for the past. And his mind yearns for the future. He can't wait till he's dead. It's a cowardly thought, but he won't deny it. Memories are painful, and he can't wait till he's able to forget. His body won't work anymore but he's been cursed with a good memory.

The worst thing is that he has all the time in the world. He may have given up long ago, but there's still a fighting spirit. He's not allowed to die of loneliness or a broken heart; it'll be a struggle to the end.

Sometime…

It all comes to an end sometime.