prose, short story, writing

Eveline.

It’s so easy to lose faith in humanity, he thought.
The path was finally leading him to the bridge the fisherman had indicated, he could already hear the sound of the river flowing. The bridge was one of those old wooden constructions that always fail to reassure you when you have to cross it, but that did not prevent him from liking it. The wood was almost entirely covered in moss, and from a certain angle it was as if the bridge was trying to disappear within the forest. He liked that idea. It made him smile.
He leaned on the bridge and stared at the flow, taking everything with it. I’m damn sure those rocks feel great down there, they don’t have to worry about anything, he thought. They don’t have to think, rethink and regret. They don’t have to live with memories, they’re just there. I wish I was like that, he thought. And to think that the night before, he was running down the pier, hoping he could prevent her from leaving. He still couldn’t understand why Eveline decided to go, she seemed happy with him, he really felt she was in love with him just as much as he was in love with her. But I guess you really don’t know anybody in this world, he said to himself out loud. He stayed on the bank for a long while watching the boat get smaller, and as it would get further away from him, he would feel more and more drawn to the earth. It was as if the ground was literally trying to swallow him; and ever since then, that feeling of constantly falling hadn’t left him.
Small fishes were taking a stand in the river, trying to swim against the current. Surely they were thinking that they could, that they were going to be stronger than the current, but it was all a joke. Everything is said and done he thought. He wondered how deep the water was, and how cold. The color of it reminded him of the pub, and the many drinks he was used to having on a regular basis. He loved The Lighthouse, it was like a second home, where he met some great folks. But when he went there last night, the pub wasn’t as warm as it usually was. There was something wrong about it. He sat down and got his usual scotch, neat. As he began to drink, he overheard a conversation between two people, one of them was in the middle of explaining something; and he looked ecstatic. From what he could remember, the man was roughly saying that women are weird creatures that are moved by their menstrual cycles. And that, was supposed to explain how and why men were having so much trouble with them. He went on by saying that women, should be carefully chosen, almost like a book. He tried to pay less attention, but the man’s voice was of those you cannot miss, so he downed his drink and left to wander in the streets. Now that she was gone, he had no place to go, no purpose. He thought about that a lot, as he was watching the fishes trying to make their way up the river. Do they really know what they are doing ? Is it going to be worth it ? If I was them, he thought, I would just stop everything and let the flow carry me.
Some birds were chirping here and there, and the yellowish sun of a Sunday afternoon was hitting him on the neck. He felt warm, but not totally. He wondered where Eveline was. He wondered where his mum and dad were. He wondered where the world had gone. Had he been swimming against the current all this time ? There must be something wrong with me, everyone leaves at some point, he mumbled. He thought about the man in the pub’s words, and felt depressed. You always hear some funny things in pubs, but that guy takes the cake. Is there many more stupid people like this guy ? He thought about women some more, and then books, and then poetry. He never liked poetry that much, but he could see why poets had been in business for so long. They had women to write about, and love, and life, and rivers and birds. All of that makes for a great poem, or a great painting perhaps. He never saw the appeal in any of those things; and all of a sudden he started to realize that he actually never saw the appeal in anything. He disliked a great many things, aside from the pub and his girl. But now the girl was gone, and the pub well, the pub will probably always be there but …
He walked down the bridge, and tightened his belt as he was losing his pants. He got around the bridge, and simply went knee deep in the river. He had water up to his thighs, it was as cold as it looked, and he could feel his penis curling up in his pants, in search of warmth. The fishes were now struggling even more because of his legs being there, and he liked the thought of it. It made him smile. There’s a reason I’m big and you’re tiny, he thought. He grabbed one of the peaceful rocks he had seen earlier and was amazed at how heavy it was. For a tranquille object, it sure did weigh something. You’d think a useless thing would be as light as air, he thought. But then again, look at me. Perhaps it’s the contrary, he thought. The more useless, the heavier. That would explain the expression “heavy-heart”, he thought. He laughed inside at how stupid he was, and yet a part of him still was serious. He grabbed another rock and put it in his pocket. He grabbed two more, and did the same thing. His belt had to be tightened some more, and he picked two more, threw them in his pockets. They were full of rocks now, there was only thing left to do, he thought. He sat down in the water, and then lied down.
He got carried away by the current and never tried to swim against it.

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