A Broken Man

In my mind, I had the full arc of this story set. Then I started writing it, and halfway through decided to go in a completely different direction. I hope you enjoy where I ended up.

A warning, just like my first story, this one is dark. I do not believe there is anything that requires a trigger warning in here, but it is an exploration of how a death could affect someone if taken to the extreme.

Apologies, even though this is Lit, there is no sex in this story. I put this in Romance because, while it may be dark, it is still a love story.

A Broken Man

A few spring buds were starting to show on the trees. This was a consequence of a few warmer days over the past two weeks before the temperature decided to dip again. The green on the buds could be discerned if you looked closely, but it was not enough to break up the browns and grays that dominated the landscape. A few squirrels were on the hunt in the underbrush, scurrying, digging, and scurrying some more.

All of this was lost on the man. He sat on the bench staring. He had learned to hide his feelings behind a blank expression, lest a passerby try to strike up a conversation out of concern. Most would think he was simply focused on the scenery in front of him, taking in the beginnings of Spring struggling to take hold.

This was not the case. He tried not to think anymore. All roads headed to the same place when his mind started to work. He tried to clear his mind and let the time pass. The weekends were the worst. Two whole days to try and get through without thinking about anything. Trying to pass the time as quickly as possible. Checking off the days, then weeks and years, marching toward an inevitable conclusion.

He knew he would have to find a new spot. Winter was easy. He came here every weekend the weather cooperated. And when it didn't, he would simply sit on the bench in a raincoat. He only had a couple of weeks left at most. The temperature would get warmer. More people would come to enjoy the park. More people meant a higher probability of someone trying to speak to him. The circumstances of his life may have made him jaded, but he was not a mean person. He knew the act of trying to extract himself from a conversation someone was trying to start always came off rude. He disliked rude people immensely, so he resolved to find a way to avoid putting himself in those positions in the future.

Staying home was not an option. His home was a prison. The walls amplified his thoughts and reverberated them back at him until the noise was overwhelming. He tried everything he could think of and everything those around him had suggested. He had moved. He bought new furniture and household items. He would be hard pressed to find a single item in his house from his old life.

It didn't work. The TV, while not the same, reminded him of the shows they would watch together. The couch reminded him of the times they would spoon together while listening to music. He got rid of both. No one came over anymore, so there was no point in keeping something around that caused him pain. He had some folding chairs if he needed to sit, and the most basic bed he could find to sleep on.

He heard a person approaching, walking their dog, and kept looking forward as they passed. He did not make eye contact, lest they be polite and say hello, to which he would have to respond. He sighed as he heard more people approaching. He'd have to find a new spot sooner than he would have liked.

He could go back to the cemetery. He only stopped a few years back, on the advice of the friends he still had at the time. They thought it would let his grief consume him, not realizing it had happened long before. The idea appealed to him. If there were other people in the cemetery, they generally left you alone.

*****

The following weekend he headed to the cemetery. He still came regularly to tend the grave, just not every day or weekend as he had done in the past. After a few weeks, he was finally comfortable sitting Indian style in front of the marker. He felt bringing a chair would be disrespectful. He also felt oddly closer to her. Why that was, he couldn't say.

He no longer cried at her grave. Not because the pain had dulled. If there was a way to measure it, he would have thought it was slightly more acute now. He once pondered why the tears no longer came, but couldn't come up with an answer. Perhaps crying enough for five lifetimes had permanently devoid him of tears.

Spring was in full bloom at this point, with many of the surrounding trees at their most beautiful. While he was able to acknowledge the change in seasons occurring all around him, the splendor of it was lost.

Picking up a small twig and tossing it aside, he noticed movement in his periphery vision. He looked up to see a woman walking toward a marker. She plopped herself down in front of it and appeared to be playing with the grass. This had to be at least the fourth time he had seen her while he was here. He started thinking of her as a regular like himself. The thought quickly faded, and he went back to looking for twigs to clean up...or anything to keep his mind empty.

*****

As usual, he stayed until dusk. The days were getting longer, which was good. It meant less time in the apartment alone. If he had to be there due to weather or darkness and he was not ready to sleep, he would simply clean. It was one of the few things that would keep his mind sufficiently blank. After living there a couple of years, he had cleaned some of the surfaces to the point of starting to damage them. He didn't stop, though. He knew at some point, whether he moved or if the landlord inspected it, he would have to pay for the damage. He didn't mind; it was better than the alternative.

The weekend was over. Now all he needed to do was get to sleep. Tomorrow he would be at work, which would take over his thoughts and allow some respite. He had given up on the sleeping pills and other drugs the doctors tried to give him. Sure, he would sleep, but the dreams were even worse, with no way to wake up from them. And the drugs they gave him for the daytime just left him in a fog. Some might think that was preferable, but he didn't want to forget. He didn't want to dull the pain; he wanted his wife back. He understood the logic his former friends would use to explain why it was not wise to hope for the impossible. He didn't care. That was what would fix him. It was the only thing.

Since that outcome was unlikely, he simply continued to exist. Wandering around the purgatory that God, or whatever other entity was pulling the strings, deemed necessary for him to suffer through. He would continue to perform this penance until he ultimately, finally, expired. Hoping he would then be reunited with her.

*****

Waking up the following day, he went through his morning rituals in the same robotic fashion he went through the rest of his life. Putting on his socks, he noticed a hole in one of them. He realized, begrudgingly, that he was down to only two pairs, and would need to go clothes shopping at some point soon. He didn't mind having to do the laundry more frequently. It was yet another task to take his mind off the fact that he still existed. But threadbare clothes would garner attention after a while, and that he wanted to avoid. Clothes shopping went on the mental list of things to accomplish that week.

Arriving at work early enough to avoid most of the other employees, he went up to the third floor and retreated to the corner cubicle assigned to him by leadership. He worked in IT for a medium-sized insurance company. Not that long ago he had been on the management fast track, leading a small team of developers that worked on some of the more high-profile projects within the company.

That all changed with the tragedy. Slowly at first, and then suddenly. When Christine was diagnosed, doctor visits ensued, so he just worked longer hours. Eventually though, after the rounds of chemo and hospital stays, he just couldn't keep up. His team picked up the slack. He had helped nurture their careers and they returned the favor.

When Christine passed, he simply became a ghost. He attended meetings, yet didn't speak, even though he was supposed to be leading them. When there weren't meetings, he would be in his office, staring blankly at the screen. His emails piled into the thousands. He realized the position he was putting the company, and specifically his boss, in. His boss had recognized his talent and supported his career. It wasn't fair to put him in this position. He walked into his office, apologized, and offered to resign. What he was going to do after that, he had no idea. It wasn't like he had another position lined up.

To his credit, his boss declined to accept his resignation. He closed his office door, asked him to sit and said, "James, I'd like to try an alternative." His boss went on to explain his idea. He would reassign James' team and use him as a freelance troubleshooter to assist the other application teams. James agreed, as he had nothing to lose at this point. It was a shaky start. He still had trouble concentrating on work, but after a while he realized the work passed the time quicker. Which was what he was after; a quicker end.

His work started to improve, but he still didn't enjoy dealing with the other team members. It took a while, but he found a process by which they could send their issues to him via email and he would work the problems. There was always an executive or two that would demand he attend a meeting if he were assisting a project. That always went the same way. He would have trouble interacting with the executive. The executive would become angry and demand he be removed from the project. Eventually, they would end up in a call with his boss, who would calmly ask the exec to simply wait and see the results of his work. While never particularly happy with James, they were at least universally happy with his work, and for the most part, left his quirky process alone.

Today would be no different, except that he decided to do his clothes shopping this evening. A Monday night should be less crowded. James had never been fashion obsessed, but from time to time shopped in mid-to-high end fashion stores, occasionally splurging on something nice for himself. He would not do that this evening. Those stores had sales associates that often wanted to help you. He didn't need help picking his clothes. He wasn't looking for a particular fashion. He just wanted something that fit and didn't have holes in it. He bought the most generic colors he could and tried to make sure all the pants matched all the shirts. That was basically the limit of thought he put into it. Several pairs of socks, and he was ready to check out.

On his way to the checkout lane, a voice to his side called out to him, "James?"

James looked over, "Oh hi, Ed."

Shit. Just his luck. Ed had been in his circle of close friends. He had known him since grade school. He had been in Ed's wedding party, and Ed was in his. It wasn't that he no longer liked his friends. He just knew where the conversation always led to, and it was one he didn't want to have any longer. He had the same conversation with family, friends and therapists for the better part of two years, until he had finally become tired of it and started cutting people out of his life. Passively at first; then actively. Finally, one day he texted the remaining friends and family that were in touch with him. He told them he needed a break, some time to think and reflect, and that when he was ready, he would contact them again. Then he changed his phone number. A few people knew where he lived. Luckily, no one had shown up. His parents had passed away in a car accident a few years prior. While he was upset by his parents passing, he was grateful he didn't have to try and attempt to cut them off as well.

"So how are you doing?"

'Here we go,' thought James. His skills at deflecting these conversations had atrophied in the years since he cut everyone off. He briefly thought about just walking away; then Ed would definitely get the hint. But that would be rude, and Ed didn't deserve that. After all, he was only trying to help. James just wished everyone would realize he didn't want help.

"I'm good, just late for an appointment, so I have to run."

With that, James turned and started to scurry away.

"James, wait." Ed didn't yell, but he said it forcefully enough that James knew he was cornered.

He approached him, standing just in front of him, waiting until James met his gaze.

"Look, I get it. Your disappearing act."

He paused to study James for a moment. While James only became more uncomfortable with each passing moment.

"We were all badgering you, trying to get you to do things you didn't want to do. We had the best intentions of course..." Ed paused again and let out a big sigh.

"...but we never thought about what you wanted. We knew you couldn't get what you wanted, so just assumed that our suggestions were the next best thing. But maybe the best thing would have been for us to just be there for you instead."

Ed reached into his pocket for his wallet. He pulled out a business card and handed it to James.

"Here, in case you no longer have my number. It would be great to hear from you."

Ed turned to leave, paused and turned back to James.

"I loved Christine too, you know. I loved you both. The difference being I didn't just lose Christine, I lost you, too."

Ed turned and walked away. His words, while poignant, had no effect on James. The only thing they did was take up more time, which he was always thankful for.

*****

James didn't call Ed, but he didn't throw his number away either. In someone's eyes that may have been progress, yet he continued his rituals: work, the cemetery, his apartment as little as possible, and avoiding interaction as much as possible.

Spring was ready to turn into summer. James was in his spot in front of the marker at the cemetery. He could now sit Indian style for an hour straight before he needed to get up and walk around.

He vaguely became aware of a shadow near him that he couldn't remember being there in the past. He looked up and saw a woman at his side, probably slightly younger than him, staring down at him. Although he had only seen her from a distance, he was fairly certain it was the same woman he had seen regularly at the cemetery for the past month or so.

"Four minutes."

"I'm sorry?" James replied.

"I was standing here for four minutes before you looked up. At first, I thought you were trying to ignore me, but I can tell by the look on your face you didn't realize I was standing here."

Having limited interaction with people means you are not always prepared for the way a conversation will go. This conversation, however, was so far from anything he had ever encountered that he would have struggled to keep up regardless. As he contemplated how to extricate himself from the conversation, she appeared to offer him an out.

"Do you want to be left alone?"

Before James could register that his reply would probably be construed as rude, he blurted out, "Yes!"

"Oh good!" She replied, and with that she sat down Indian style beside him.

James just stared at her. Completely perplexed and even slightly worried...worried that there might be a truly crazy person sitting next to him.

She stared back for a moment, a slight smile curling at the edge of her lips.

"You need an explanation, don't you?"

James just nodded slowly. Feeling like he was still trying to get up to speed on what was happening.

"Being left alone, does not mean you have to be alone. Usually when someone says they want to be left alone, what they really mean is they want you to stop badgering them about a particular topic." She paused for a moment and then continued as her head turned to survey the cemetery, "Most people don't want to be truly alone."

She turned back to him and smiled again.

James just struggled. It had been so long since he had been in a conversation with someone that wasn't work related he didn't know how to respond. It was as if the conversation synapses in his brain had forgotten how to fire.

"So, wife?"

Finally, his brain started to wake up, "Excuse me?"

"This is your wife." She stated, looking over at the marker.

"Umm, yes."

With that, she nodded and turned her head to look out into the cemetery again.

They sat like that for quite a while, and at some point, James did not even know how much time had passed. He no longer wore a watch, and didn't look at his phone while he was in the cemetery. He just always stayed until dusk. Eventually the woman turned to him.

"Did it help?"

"Did what help?"

"Not being alone."

Before he could contemplate a reply, she rose and walked off. James turned back to the marker and stayed until dusk.

*****

James did not see the woman again for a few days, which wasn't unusual; her cadence was never as regular as his. When she did come back, he was much more aware of her presence. He saw her in his periphery vision as he often did. She walked to the marker she always went to and sat in front of it, not even glancing his way. He wondered about how that made him feel. He then immediately wondered why he wondered that. She went to her marker, that's what she always did. Why would he question it?

These thoughts, and several variations of them, puzzled him until he noticed the shadow again. He felt a brief flicker of something. Something he couldn't place, because as quickly as it came, it was gone. He looked up at the woman smiling down on him.

"Did it disappoint you?"

Why was he always confused when she spoke?

"Did what disappoint me?"

"When I didn't come over right away. When I ignored you and went to my marker instead."

"I'm not sure."

Shit. Why did he answer so honestly? He could have said anything else.

She smiled at that confession and sat down beside him again. Continuing to smile, she put out her hand, "I'm Emily."

James shook her hand and responded, "I'm James."

Handshake over, she turned to survey the cemetery again.

They sat there in silence for a while. Emily casually removing a twig here and there from the grass around her and tossing it back toward the road.

James had just relaxed back into his thoughtless state when she startled him slightly by speaking.

"When you're ready to tell me, I'll listen."

The conversation part of his brain must have been waking up, as it only took a moment for him to realize what she meant. He didn't want to be rude, but he knew he had to be honest.

"I don't think so."

"No?"

"No, sorry."

"I get it. You don't want to tell me because you think I'll start offering you 'solutions.'"

James stared at her for a moment as he processed what she had said.

"Are you a therapist?"

Emily glanced up to the left just for a moment as she pondered his question.

"Yes! I am my own therapist, but if it helps you as well, then it's a happy accident."

With that, Emily got up and walked away.

James sat in front of the marker, replaying the conversation with Emily over and over in his mind. In what felt like the blink of an eye, it was dusk and time to leave.

*****

For the rest of the week, when his mind wasn't occupied by work, James thought about his conversations with Emily. She always seemed to be one step ahead of him. He found his previous friends easy to deflect as he anticipated most of the things they would say. It got to a point where he could have written a script for them to recite, he thought. Which is one of the reasons he withdrew from them. He couldn't take it anymore.

The conversations with Emily were different. He started to realize that he was possibly, very slightly, eager to hear what came next from her. The side-effect being that he was possibly, very slightly, eager to see her again. He pushed that thought aside every time it came forward.