The Dusty Window

The Dusty Window

The man had been sitting at the window for as long as he could remember. His body remained completely motionless, like a molecule at absolute zero. The only signs of life within him were his highly expressive eyebrows and a pair of lively eyes; these were constantly wandering about, jumping at every moving object in sight with a profound fascination. Each observation he made was dramatically narrated by the wiggling and squiggling of his brows. In fact, their movements were of such an elaborate nature that a linguist would have identified them as expressions of a fully fledged language with an intricate system of grammar and a substantial vocabulary. At least that was his idea of it.

Time had covered the window pane with a veil of dust. It was as if a thin but dense wall of fog lay between his gloomy apartment and the outside world. Within this hazy barrier, a multitude of microscopic creatures thrived; millions of dust mites digging their way through the accumulated layers, like miniscule moles, feeding on dead skin particles and carcasses of even smaller insects (some of them as yet unknown to science). The man himself subsisted on mineral fibers, flower pollen and aforementioned mites by inhaling clouds of dust at regular intervals. While he may not have been the healthiest of individuals, his sedentary existence allowed this unconventional diet to suffice.

Every few days, he would raise a hand, which had grown weak and pale from disuse, delicately dabbing his sweaty brow with a rotten piece of sponge cloth to moisten it. With a circular motion, he would then wipe away a pristine patch of dust right in front of his face.

Although he felt close to most of the people who passed by his window regularly, emitting soft salutatory superciliary vibrations (the fact that none of the passersby ever reciprocated his greetings did not bother him), his attention was particularly drawn to a young boy, who resided in the same building. The source of this interest eluded him, but it seemed to emanate from a dark corner of his psyche, a place of confliction, pain and violence. Accordingly his soft superciliary salutes gave way to a tense tremble, when the child came into view. But he would frantically suppress any thoughts that would question this interest.

Amidst his observations the mans brows would often pay homage to the window, expressing gratitude and admiration for its dual role of offering glimpses into the outside world while shielding him from the harsh elements. His gaze frequently fixated on the wind, observing its mischievous activities as it stole hats from old ladies and caused innocent pedestrians to shiver. The man harbored a deep-rooted resentment for this invisible and evil force, witnessing it creep through hedges, ready to assail unsuspecting victims with its wintry blade.

Then, one fateful autumn night, an event unfolded that forever altered the man’s perception of his reality. Darkness enveloped the street, the lonely lantern next to his window was staring nervously at the ground, hoarding all of its feeble light as if guarding a precious secret. The wind slithered through the shrubbery surrounding the mans dwelling. The shadow of a cat pursued the squeaking of a mouse. Across the street, the skeletal branches of a tree were reaching out towards the razor thin sickle moon, as if plotting to stab somebody with it.

There was the boy, he was late and alone and did not know what was about to happen to him. The mans brows trembling with anticipation as if shot with a taser. From a hole in a hedge a shadowy figure emerged, casting its ominous presence over the unsuspecting child. It was Billy the big bully from school. He ordered the boy to take off his clothes and made him stand in the cold street for hours, shivering and humiliated. Suddenly the man knew he had witnessed this scene countless times and in a fleeting moment, the truth revealed itself, a truth he had long tried to deny. The boy, the object of his unexplained fascination, was none other than a younger version of himself. For years, he had been unknowingly reliving his own tragic history by peering through the window of his memories.

Tremors coursed through his body as he recognized the inevitability of the boy’s fate, his own fate. The weight of his knowledge and inability to alter the course of events became unbearable. He couldn’t tear himself away from the window, consumed by the tragedy that had marked his existence.

As he released the piece of sponge cloth, letting it fall to the ground, allowing the dust to pollulate the once-transparent patch in front of his now motionless eyes, darkness descended upon the room. He surrendered to the soothing fog of forgottenness, sealing himself within the confines of his own mind. Hiding in a place where neither the suffocating irreversibility of the past nor the frightening unpredictability of the future could disturb him.