The Becoming

The unimportant, muffled chatter, the clink clacking of tea cups and espresso cups, the sound of the metal spoons grazing around the ceramic surface of the cups and plates, the hideous, guttural, forced laughter – all of it resonated loudly in Franz Joseph’s head, provoking a stabbing, nauseating headache. He regretted coming to the café. How foolish was he to have stepped out of his apartment. He hated these people crowding around him. It seemed to him that the moment he sat down the place filled with people like a flock of pigeons chasing a single crumb of bread. The moment the grey clouds parted just a little and the sun showered the streets with its warmth, the common people stormed the café in a span of few minutes and he was trapped in the corner of the café involuntarily.

When he got to the cafe, he sat down at a table by the wide window, gleeful he managed to find the nicest spot in the then empty café to gaze at the dark clouds and the people stressing through their lives. He should have distrusted his less than gloomy mood and sensed there was something rotten in the morning air. The Universe was rarely that gentile and generous to him as to grant him a nice, quiet spot to enjoy his coffee in the absence of his crippling thoughts. However, as soon as people started coming in, the waiter, struggling to cloak his annoyance with Franz Joseph’s person in a polite smile and cheery tone, asked him to move to a smaller table so that he could sit a group of two people that just chimed through the door at his table. The waiter flashed him a smile that had little welcome and no sincerity in it when he told him he was sorry he had to move from his table. Franz Joseph stared blankly at the man as he was making his request in an aggressively polite way, already picking him up by the forearm and stirring him in the direction of the corner table he was now angrily occupying. The waiter even took his yet untouched espresso back to the kitchen so that he was forced to order another. Immediately, he noticed that the check he was given was not his, but he guessed, for the party of people sitting right across from him on the other side of the café, because the check listed numerous alcoholic beverages and not even one espresso and the check corresponded the clutter of empty glasses on their table as far as he could see. He tried to protest, but the waiter slithered between the tables and the chairs like a snake, never once turning back or showing any sign of even hearing Franz Joseph call out for him.

Irritation overtook him at once. He wanted to crawl out of his body and remove himself from himself and the wretched café, away from this deceitful morning and back to his empty apartment to recharge. His morning ruined, he decided to rebel and leave without paying, but the instant he stood up, the lavatory door suddenly opened in excessive force and greeted him like a loving father, hitting him smack on his face, causing his nose to spurt with blood. The instantaneous sharp pain and the shock of it knocked the air from his lungs. He instinctively and helplessly drooped down to his seat, his hands covering his nose, collecting the gushing blood.

His initial panic was almost instantly replaced with blinding rage. He looked at the culprit that caused his sudden pain – the man looked back at him with a strong stench of disgust in his eyes and visible annoyance and walked away without saying anything. Franz Joseph exhaled deeply to let out some of the pain he struggled to hold inside and tried to stifle the groan harbouring in his chest. His hands were slightly shaking, his palms wet with blood and the blood was starting to drip to his trousers. Franz Joseph moved his hand to stop the bleeding and winced in pain when he touched the bridge of his nose. He lifted his eyes over the people in the café. He felt repulsion – their conceited small laughter, theatrical head throws and hand brushes, all those pathetic distraction addicts. He found the man he was looking for - the culprit – and stared at him.

The man sat back down at his table, his back turned to Franz Joseph. The man’s back was hunched and he pointed over his shoulder to Franz Joseph and said something to the two women and a man at his table that elicited a loud laugh from his company. They all looked back at Franz Joseph at the same time and then amongst themselves shared more comments and laughs.

Franz Joseph couldn’t take their blatant ignorance of his pain. What kind of animals were they – all of the people in the café – to see him bleeding in the corner, among them, one of them, and so cruelly deciding they didn’t care to even grant him a pitiful look? He dropped his eyes to the table – drops of blood stained his untouched pristine white espresso cup. Before getting up again, this time he looked cautiously at the lavatory door. With his back turned to the people, he lifted his left hand from his nose and looked at it – his hand was bloody and still slightly shaking. He pressed down on the bridge of his nose to check if his nose was broken and winced from the sharp pain that spread from his nose to the rest of his body. He wiped his hand across his white shirt before he turned the doorknob of the lavatory door.

The silence hit him instantly. He walked down the narrow white hall that led to the men’s lavatory trailing his blood on white walls. He was leaving a trace of his fleeting existence. When he reached the empty lavatory, sudden calmness washed over him and he felt he would be fine. He let go of his nose and locked the door behind him. The lavatory was lit with a single source of light – a bare light bulb hung over the mirror.

He let out a big breath and closed his eyes in order to come fully back to himself. Franz Joseph leaned his head back against the closed door and inhaled deeply through his mouth. The immense physical pain was still present, but he let it hurt. He stayed pressed like that against the door until he felt blood reach his mouth and he could taste the irony fluid.

The sight in the mirror was horrifying – his shirt was stained with red, fat drops of blood hung from his chin threatening to stain his clothes further. He examined his nose in the mirror – it was not broken as far as he could tell, but there was a wide open cut across the bridge of his nose. He stared at his reflection, his pale face, and waited for the drop of blood to drop from his chin and stain the pristine white sink. He sighed and turned the tap on. He let the water run over his palms first – the flow of his blood down the sink was hypnotizing, as if time stopped around him, silence and darkness cloaked him and the synchronized swirl of the red water flow overtook him.

The sound of the doorknob being violently turned pulled him out of the trance. He lifted his eyes and looked back at his green eyes staring back at him under the furrowed brows. The obvious annoyance and impatience of the person standing on the other side of the lavatory door, helplessly shut outside because Franz Joseph decided it would be so, caused a small smile to appear in the left corner of his mouth. He shook his head and poured water over his face. His nose still gushed with blood, but the flow was somewhat slowed down. He washed his face a few more times, with each turn washing away the shame he called his life.

Ultimately, the sound outside the door stopped. Franz Joseph turned to look over his right shoulder to assure himself the person has really gone. He put his hands around the edge of the sink, the water still running. He closed his eyes and focused on the sound of the flowing water and the buzzing of the light bulb over his head.

At some point he slid down to the floor, his legs stretched wide, his hands laid palms up on his thighs, his head against the cabinet hiding the waterworks. He stayed in the lavatory for an hour, his smile widening with every impatient knock on the door and turn of the doorknob. Some even shouted something, but their words were lost on Franz Joseph and were nothing more than a muffled murmur. He had the power over them now.

When he felt he had regained his peace enough to face the crowd that awaited him behind the lavatory door and down the hall, he stood up slowly, put his hands once more through the flowing water to wash away the dirt and grit from the floor. His nose stopped bleeding a while ago and he washed the dried blood under his nose and over his mouth with his index finger. His white shirt – the front and the sleeves the most - was ruined from the blood, but he wasn’t bothered by it. At least now he and something to do when he got home to help pass the time.

Franz Joseph straightened his coat, gripped the doorknob and took a deep breath before he unlocked it and turned it to face the cattle.