Flash Fiction by C. N. Nevets
The weight. The weight of the world. The weight of his sorrows. The weight of his soul. The weight of himself. The weight of the world, he could handle. The weight of himself was both a crushing and an implosive force that was too much to bear.
A full head of long, permed hair to make up for the grey at his temples. A pair of gold-rimmed, brown-to-amber aviators to hide the blood-shot in his eyes. A leather jacket to hide the tears in his Motley Crue t-shirt and a pair of second-hand platforms to compensate for the slump in his posture.
He was a damn show. That’s all he was anymore. A parody of himself, put on for the amusement of others and to distract himself from how desperately painful it was to take himself even a little seriously.
He hadn’t looked in a mirror for God-only-knows-how-long.
He hadn’t written song lyric from the heart for not-even-God-probably-knows-how-long.
The moment a reflective thought crept onto the periphery of his mind, he swatted it away with vigor drawn from desperate self-preservation. Tapping a drum beat on the counter – clicking a bass-line with hums and tongue-clucks – reciting Queensryche in full, Shakespearean flourish – it didn’t matter what.
The show had to go on.
Or the curtain had to come down.
Against the embankment.
Engulfing him, his car, his guitar.
And the weight of himself.