A battle of intense hardship unfolds; they fight relentlessly, hoping to find an ending they desire. Seeing this, I was always filled with a sense of anticipation as I prayed that they would obtain their happy ending. And so I would seek out more stories, always hoping—always praying—for another happy ending. In my experience, fictional characters often achieve happy endings, though sometimes that's not the case. For some characters, a tragic ending awaited them at the end of their perilous or heartbreaking journey, or sometimes even a bittersweet ending. But I always loved happy endings more than anything else. After a character—or a group of characters—defeats all the adversaries before them, I believe that they should be rewarded for it. I find such a thing beautiful, tantalizing even. Those happy endings soothed my battered heart, giving me solace for just a little while.
Those happy endings healed me, giving me the strength to move on—to be human. Despite all of that, I know they were poisonous. Like the tempting poisonous apple given to Snow White, I was drawn in by its potential sweetness, deceived by the appearance of kindness. That sweetness that lured me into its depths, to its very core, poisoned my heart, only making me weaker than I was before. Slowly, ever so slowly, my heart would grow weaker with each happy ending. What an irony. The very thing that kept me going would inevitably kill me. My life was nothing but a tragedy of my own making, ultimately making it undeserving of the honor of being a "tragedy." All my thoughts, feelings, and beliefs—none of them were remotely justified. I am merely a fool dancing on a stage that would swallow me whole. I would fall endlessly until I finally disappeared forever. That was certainly the legacy I would leave behind.
The fact of the matter is, a happy ending, a tragic one, or even a bittersweet one—my life was nothing. I wouldn't get any of the endings that the works I admired so much had. No matter how much I craved a happy ending, how much I feared a tragic ending, or how much I would be willing to accept a bittersweet ending, none of them would come to me. I would merely die in insignificance, remaining just another name among the billions on the planet, never having amounted to anything, never finding satisfaction, and never having anything I could call my own.
I am certain that is the ending that fits me the most: an ending so empty, so dull, that even someone with an amazing memory would forget I ever existed. I could lament, be enraged, or even fear that fact. However, I know that it doesn't matter. I can feel something about this, but feeling alone won't get me anywhere. It was an immutable fact, an unbreakable wall. Thus, I can only wallow in my own despair, never changing my end, never becoming anything, and never leaving anything behind.
In the end, on this fool's stage, I can only make my final plea as everything around me crumbles away. Crumbling and crumbling—dust to dust—all my life's work would suffocate me, giving me my proper ending, giving me the ending I deserve most—a perfect ending for an empty person.
There is no happy ending. There is no tragic ending. There is not even a bittersweet ending. There is only a dull and empty ending for me.
So, if my plea reaches your heart, please witness my final struggle.
Please witness my end.
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An intense chill licked the young man lying in a layered bed. Stirring, the young man slowly opened his eyes to the room before him. The log ceiling immediately caught his attention. Shooting straight upward, he darted his gaze around the scenery. A table, a dresser, a fireplace, a bookcase, a glass casing—all of these things were around the room. Yet, every single one of these things had one striking similarity: he had never seen any of them before. This room was alien.
He was alone—a thing he was greatly accustomed to. Despite this, his usual feeling of loneliness was far greater than ever before. Finding himself within such a strange place, with all sense of familiarity gone without a trace, had thrown even that normal but terrible loneliness to new heights. Elevated to a place beyond the stratosphere, the young man could do nothing but look around with a dumbfounded expression on his face. Had he been kidnapped? Or was he simply dreaming? Of course, the sheets against his body, the cold chill piercing through his pajamas, and the smell of wood felt all too real for it to simply be a dream.
So, had he been kidnapped? He didn't strike himself as someone who would be targeted. A twenty-year-old, non-athletic college student didn't seem like someone who would be in high demand. Of course, he didn't know what would qualify as high demand; it wasn't like he was in the kidnapping business.
Shaking off the pointless train of thought, he got out of the bed and walked around the room, hoping to find some sort of clue to his situation. The first thing that caught his eye was a glass casing bolted to the wall with a single butterfly pinned to a board inside. The butterfly was still moving.
Is that even possible? The thought raced through the young man's mind as he stepped closer to see the squirming butterfly. Twitching and writhing, the butterfly desperately tried to escape the pin. Flapping its wings violently, it couldn't manage to break free from its prison. The young man looked to see if there was some way to open the glass casing, but to no avail. No such opening seemed to exist; only smashing through the glass seemed viable. Although, smashing through glass to save an already dying butterfly—who would do such a thing?
Only a fool would do it, the young man thought.
Quickly losing interest, he looked below the display case and saw a plaque reading: "Once upon a time, I dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware that I was myself. Soon I awaked, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man."
…Zhuangzi? The young man briefly recalled the origin of the quote. A rather abnormal quote to choose in modern society, that was the impression he had of it. Vaguely, he reminisced on its common metaphor used in some of the works he'd consumed. Varying from usage in religion to exploration of one's self—he quite enjoyed its use, and a small smile formed on his lips at the memories.
Still, it bothered him that it was used for a random room; its use seemingly arbitrary in the context of a singular displayed butterfly. Perhaps that was too harsh; it could have been used merely because the owner of the place liked the quote, like a person hanging pictures on their walls with quotes inscribed within the contents of the imagery. Regardless of the intent, the young man turned his attention to the bookcase to escape the thought of the bizarre butterfly, hoping that the lingering thought would disappear soon.
He scanned the tomes that lined the shelves uniformly. Ranging from Dostoevsky to Fitzgerald, the shelves contained literature across the world. Interested, he pulled one book out. The book slid smoothly out, creating a rather satisfying feeling inside his heart. The Divine Comedy had piqued his interest since he hadn't gotten around to reading it yet. If he was trapped in this place, he could take advantage of the time and read several of these novels. However, now wasn't the time. Returning the book to its original spot, he walked toward the desk and saw a stack of papers. The very top page was blank. Flipping it over revealed yet another blank sheet of paper—a rather underwhelming sight in comparison to the other two previous areas.
Searching through the other pages, his face only twisted into more disappointment at the sight of empty page after empty page. He felt that if something was placed in the center of a desk, it was logical to assume it would contain something. That very principle that he stubbornly held onto was disregarded in such a blunt fashion; the sight was pathetic.
Clearing his disappointment from his heart, he turned toward the fireplace and saw what he could only assume to be the essentials of a fireplace: firewood, kindling, a lighter, lighter fluid, a metal poker, and some more wood of varying sizes. From the assessment of an amateur, it all seemed sufficient. Overall, the fireplace was about as expected of a fireplace—it was usable.
With his cursory investigation concluded, he found he had a deficit of information to answer questions. If anything, he had only developed more questions. If he had been kidnapped, it seemed like an abnormal room to keep someone who was kidnapped. Following that line of logic, it only seemed natural that he could conclude that he wasn't kidnapped. However, that begged the question: how did he end up here?
Searching through his memory, he tried to recall his last memories. The last thing he remembered was the newest fall semester for his college… he shook his head. No, that couldn't be right; it was summer. His face twisted into more confusion as he began to think that it was actually his spring semester. It was like his memories were all a mess; he couldn't pin down what the season was, let alone what he was doing the previous day. Perhaps he really was kidnapped and he had received a blow to the head that scrambled all his memories.
Putting his hand to his face, the young man tried to find a place that could've been hit. Rubbing from the front, to the side, and to the back, he found no such thing. No pain, no bump—just nothing along with a sense of something missing. Drugged then? Maybe he was still partially affected? However, he pushed it off since he felt normal. His body responded to what he wanted, he didn't feel off, he was simply normal. Such normalcy was disturbing in a way. It felt as if he might've been too normal, and yet, that could only be described as paranoia.
Maybe he should check a mirror? He shook the idea off quickly, remembering he hadn't even noticed a mirror on his initial walk. Gazing around the room one more time, the young man made sure nothing else piqued his interest before attempting the door. Expecting nothing, he found himself surprised when he saw a mirror on the wall behind the bed. Tensing his jaw, the young man walked forward toward the mirror and looked into it.
The sight before him caused his eyes to widen. Shooting his hands to his face to verify that it really was a mirror, he found that the sight before him was no illusion. His complexion was much healthier than normal, free of the usual bags under his eyes. His skin was clearer too, without the blemishes or facial hair he once had. Instantly, he realized what the sense of something missing had been: his missing facial hair. He hadn't felt it—not one bit. The face was attractive, or at least more attractive than his previous face. However, probably the biggest thing that sent him into shock was his eye color, now a beautiful blue. He was drawn in by their color, a faint look of nostalgia crossed his face as he gazed deeply into the mirror's reflection. Like a magnetic force, those eyes pulled him in. He seemed to notice that fact, yet he showed no sign of fighting the urge, almost as if he were embracing that force.
However, when his hands that were still on his face grew tired, he finally broke away from the eyes. Dropping his hands to his side and without warning, he turned. The awe was gone, as if it hadn't ever been there. All that remained was nothing. Emotionless, his eyes were cold. He strode toward the door in quick steps. His expression was perpetually blank as he walked, showing no signs of the previous behavior; a cold attitude that seemed to pervade even outside of his face. Soon, he reached the door and placed his hand on the handle. Quickly turning it, a click was heard and the door gave way, slowly creaking open into the silent expanse outside. A blinding light caused the young man to squint. But even that was too much; the dim lighting of the inside had ill-prepared him for the supernova-like brightness before him.
Slowly, his vision adjusted to the light. What came into view was something he was both surprised and unsurprised about at the same time. A vast field of snow surrounded him. For at least a kilometer in every direction, nothing else was in sight. In the distance, the beginning clusters of trees formed into a surrounding forest. This part was unsurprising; the rather cold air had suggested that it was a more wintery climate. What surprised him was the fact that it looked like he was near the base of a mountain. Beyond the trees, a sharp incline occurred with rocks, eventually forming a peak high into the air. The empty surroundings were lonesome; the young man's jaw tensed. A cold wind blew by, chilling him to his bones. Shivering, he decided that it would probably be best to find some clothing inside of the shack.
Returning inside, he scrounged around in one of the dressers and found some warmer clothing along with gloves, some boots, a winter coat, and a scarf. Some of the items struck him as odd to find inside of a dresser; however, he didn't put much thought into it. Ultimately, whatever was in this shack was irrelevant. The only thing he had in mind was finding someplace to contact people.
Still…the young man had some lingering regrets, after all, part of him wanted to wait and see what happened. After all, could he even survive out in the cold by himself? A faint laugh escaped from the young man's mouth when he thought about it. He was so worked up to go and find people that he hadn't even considered the most obvious thing of all: he was—incompetent.
That was the reality of the situation: he didn't know the first thing about survival in the wild. And with no clue of where to go, would it really be wise to go out? What could a clueless, hopeless, and incompetent person like the young man ever do? Some may say that it is better to try to do something than giving up entirely. However, such empty sentiments are as toxic as giving up easily. Pushing forward when one has no hope of ever reaching their destination, enduring all the pain for nothing—how can that be better than simply giving up? In the end, by giving up, one may find another path to walk; one path that's less thorny—less fulfilling.
And yet, some people will push on regardless. An indomitable spirit gives them the will to move forward, to fight, and to reach the end. Those people, they were strong—stronger than he was. With his feet firmly planted at the doorway, he couldn't move a muscle. He couldn't take that step onto the thorny path. The maze of thorns before him had no end in sight, only a labyrinth of suffering awaited. A labyrinth he wasn't even sure had an exit. So, if one of those people were to say: "you should never give up! Giving up is worse than failing!" Would they spout their banal nonsense? Would they tell someone to go at the risk of their life? Would they stake their own lives on the trite beliefs they espoused?
They would never stake their lives like that, the young man thought. So, I have to stop and ask myself: if most people wouldn't stake their lives on a chance, am I willing to? Am I bold enough to risk my life for something I don't even know will be worth it? Such a decision…is impossible for me to make…
Like a statue guarding the front door, the young man stood planted to the ground. He stared far into the snowy landscape, into the forest beyond the field, and even further than that. His gaze seemed to travel somewhere beyond the tangible world, into a place that seemed so close, but was actually so far. As his gaze looked into that distant place, a singular tear formed in his right eye and fell, sliding across his cheek until finally plummeting to the wooden flooring below. Hitting the floor, the tear burst against it.
The young man touched his cheek with his right hand, feeling the wet streak left behind by the tear. His expression didn't change to shock at the fact he shed a tear, nor did it change to a deep sadness that would make him cry more, and it didn't turn into confusion as to why he was crying. Shutting his two lips together tightly, he didn't show anything—he refused to show anything. Because, it had truly hit him now. He was, without a doubt, truly—
—alone.