FICTION — SHORT STORY
A Solitudinarian’s Coming-of-Age Story
The Downfall of Nonconformity
“FRANCIS!” young Pemberton yelled as he proceeded to slam the front door. “You will not believe what I just saw!”
No response was heard from the young man to whom these words were directed. In fact, Francis did not hear his name being called at all, nor could the stomping of his brother’s feet on the floor above his head gain his attention. Instead, this cryptic creature was muttering to himself. “No, no, no. That line won’t do. I don’t want to sound that pretentious.”
A door could be heard opening, followed by feet on the unsteady staircase that led to the basement. “Francis. I said you would not…”
“Yes, Pem, I hear you. But I’m busy. Tell Mother I won’t be joining you all for dinner.”
“Again? This is the fourth night in a row. When do you ever eat?”
“Come on, Pem. Not now. I have to finish this.”
“That’s what you said yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. Don’t you think it’s a little pathetic? You have been out of school for three years and hardly ever leave our parents’ house.”
At that, Francis dropped his pen. It landed on top of one of the six notebooks that were flipped open on his desk. He knew his younger brother was right, but he didn’t like being reminded of his own meaningless — or non-existent contributions to society, let alone by a middle school boy.
“I heard Mom and Dad talking about you yesterday.” The boy bent down to remove his dirty shoes. “Mom was saying how she was worried for your health, or whatever, and Dad said that if you didn’t do something with your life soon, he is going to kick you out.”
“I am doing something with my life,” Francis spat. But then he spoke more calmly, almost in a whisper. “Just because I do not want to be another cog in the wheel of this capitalist society doesn’t mean I’m not doing something. My poetry, my writing. It means more to me than getting a promotion at a job I never wanted.” He picked up his pen again. “Most people are just too shallow to understand.”
“Okay, then. While you continue to brood and be pessimistic during this hermit stage you are going through, I am going to go enjoy a meal that our mother lovingly cooked for us.” Pemberton started back up the stairs. “And all I wanted to say is that I saw Sophie Matthews punch Bryant Wilt today. In the face. It was totally awesome.”
But Francis could not care less about Sophie or Bryant. He had already tuned his brother out. All he could think was: “’Dishonorable.’ That’s it. Much more fitting than ‘corrupt.’ But it doesn’t make me sound any less pretentious…”
— — — — — — — — — — —
It had been three years since Francis had seen his family. On the very day that his younger brother had called him “pathetic,” Francis left his childhood home for the first and final time.
Around eleven that night, this young man had, what he would come to call, an epiphany. And frankly, it was an epiphany of sorts. A sudden moment of clarity. A sudden feeling of purpose. It was one of those things that can’t be explained. A call from heaven…or something. Anyone other than Francis would never understand. In fact, Francis hardly knew himself. But in a little under an hour, Francis had packed his years’ worth of journals, his laptop, and his entire wardrobe in two bags. It was quite the feat.
All of these belongings, along with Francis himself, ended up on the next bus that came through his sleepy, smelly town. He was not particular about which bus he rode, as long as it got him away from there, the only place he’d ever known. You see, Francis had always suffered from anxiety. He was afraid of social situations. The future. But his newfound clarity allowed him to forget these things. For the first time in his life, Francis felt he had a reason to be alive. He had a purpose to fulfill.
Three buses and four hours later, Francis stepped into Chicago, the farthest he had ever been from his parents. This was probably the most important milestone that Francis would ever reach, and his parents were not even aware. In fact, they did not notice his absence until four days after their son left. Even worse, they never looked into his disappearance. They did not care to conduct an investigation or, at the very least, ask their neighbors if they had seen him leaving the house. Sadly enough, everyone but little Pemberton was relieved and thought, “Good riddance.”
They would not hear of him until years later when they saw his face on the television screen.
— — — — — — — — — — —
At twenty-four years of age, Francis lived a life that many would deem successful. He had his own place, plenty of money for groceries and bills, and a stress-free lifestyle. Two years prior, Francis dedicated six months to publishing a book of his poetry and short stories. Within weeks, his book became a bestseller.
However, at this time, Francis was not publicly recognized as being the author of this masterpiece. His resurfacing anxiety got the better of him, so he published anonymously. He did not want to be recognized, for he was sure that anyone who read his work would try to commit him to a mental institution.
But this was the very reason his writings gained such popularity. He wrote what others were afraid to think. He turned his deepest, darkest thoughts into beautiful words and creative sentence structures. He delved into topics that invoked fear in the average person. People were drawn to his work because it was uncensored and seemingly forbidden.
Some readers sat with wide eyes and dazed looks after reading this sentence in particular: “We all become destroyers of worlds when we take our first breath.”
Francis wrote this line when he was thirteen. Such simple words would often stupefy even the wisest of men.
— — — — — — — — — — —
After the success of his book, Francis had plenty of money flowing into his bank account but not much to spend it on. He paid his bills and bought food and books. He had no hobbies or any friends to invest his money in. He spent weeks without leaving his humble home. He would spend all of his time reading, sleeping, and preparing meals.
The only things that could bring him a semblance of joy were vintage books and exotic foods, both of which he had sent directly to his doorstep. The last voice he heard — besides his own — was that of his editor congratulating him over the phone.
That was a year ago.
Francis knew his behavior was not normal. He knew he should have some sort of relationship with another human being. He knew he should want to make something more of himself, but after the release of his book, the motivation was gone. There was no ambition. The epiphany he experienced in his parents’ basement seemed to have occurred in a dream. Francis lost all sense of reality. What is real, but what takes place in one’s mind?
It was a sunny Tuesday when he finally left his apartment. Despite the heat, he wore clothes that covered every inch of his body. He walked down familiar, but long-forgotten, streets until he came to a children’s playground. Upon which, he spotted a bench that beckoned him over. He obeyed the metal seat and sat. This sitting soon turned into lying down which then turned into a nap. The last nap that he would ever take.
Francis’ body lay on the bench for three days until it was reported. The local parents and children were concerned and voiced their anger to the police. They thought he was homeless and had claimed the park bench as his own. They did not know that he was just a lonely man with no will to live.
— — — — — — — — — — —
“CHICAGO CHILDREN TRAUMATIZED BY MAN’S DEATH”
At twenty-five years of age, Francis was dead. He had taken control of his life, only to lose it.
Francis’s photo was seen by many after that. His death was speculated by news stations and journalists throughout much of the United States. He was considered a lunatic and a drug addict, though no substances were found on his person.
Pemberton saw his older brother’s photograph first. However, by this time, Pem nearly forgot he had a brother at all. What with his parents not mentioning him and the basement being converted into a game room, there were no signs that his brother had ever existed.
It seemed that no one could identify Francis. His parents could not be bothered to report what they knew. His editor had only known Francis by his voice. Because of these grim facts, Francis was buried most uneventfully.
His unadorned headstone was the only thing by which to remember him by. Upon his shameful death, he was not recognized for his book. It continued to sell copies worldwide, but the name of the author remained anonymous. His death even more so. No one cared that a struggling young man had died for reasons that could have been helped. It was easier to blame it on drugs than to think someone could have done something to stop it.
All Francis needed was a friend.
He never got one.
Having grown up in a society that thrives on productivity and attended a school that pressured its students to make decisive plans for their futures, I always felt behind since I didn’t know what I wanted.
I still don’t know what I want, but at least now I know I am not alone in this way of thinking.
I’ve done well in school, earned awards, and received a bachelor’s degree but still feel misguided.
Really, truly, all I want is to sit in the sun, drink peppermint tea, and read books all day. Oh, and maybe write a little. But how is that possible?
It is with all these feelings that I find inspiration in fictional characters.
This piece, specifically, is meant to be reminiscent of Dead Poets Society and the boys that finally learn what carpe diem means.
I know that many of us, even if we are no longer students, are like them, torn between what we want and what is expected of us. And this applies to every aspect of life.
“A Solitudinarian’s Coming-of-Age Story” is meant to show that there is not always — if ever — a “right” answer. The only thing we can do is ignore the criticism of others and try to do what makes us feel best.
And even then, things might not have a happy ending. You’ll never know until it is too late — and maybe not even then.
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