Solitude
Summary:
"Solitude, isolation, are painful things and beyond human endurance." ~ Jules Verne
[Insert turtle of choice]

Solitude.

Silent solitude.

Most days it was a welcome relief. Today it was a wretched torment.

Solitude made him think.

Think about the day. Think about the week. Think about his life. Think about what was wrong in all of them.

All the good was gone. Driven out by thoughts of criticism, depreciation, and loathe.

Nothing was right.

Everything was wrong…

…wrong…wrong…wrong…wrong…wrong…wrong…

…and there was no one to blame but himself.

It was his choices that had put him in his current predicament. Now here were the consequences. Consequences that he had once felt prepared to face because he was certain that his decisions were the right ones to make.

And he was wrong. So terribly wrong.

Yet no matter how strongly he willed it, there was no changing what had been done.

No take-backs. No do-overs. No quick-fixes.

Just wishful thinking about how better his life could be if only he had done one thing differently. Or two. Or three. Or more.

He would be happy. He would be hopeful.

He would not be sitting in this dark corner of his room.

Lonely.

Lost.

In solitude.

His family didn't understand.

They listened, but didn't hear. Offered advice, but gave judgment. Made assurances, but broke promises. Declared love, but hid it. Seemed helpful, but never really were.

Then their lives went on while his was left at a standstill.

How unfair it was that they could feel joy when all he felt was despair.

He was beginning to believe that he had gotten what he deserved.

Solitude.

He was headed for a breakdown.

Of that he was sure.

Tears clouded his eyes almost every night when he crawled into bed.

Hell, they were already threatening to fall.

And while he was trying to convince himself not to let them, one slithered down his cheek. Followed by another. Then another.

Eventually he became a sobbing mess, clamping a hand over his mouth to keep his noise to a minimum.

How shameful it would be for his family to find him crying.

In solitude.

He wanted to leave.

Pack up what he had, turn away, and not look back.

Run like the devil was on his heels.

But what could possibly await him on the distant horizon?

Solitude.

The same thing he'd have if he stayed.

Solitude.

Either way, he was screwed.

That was his luck.

That was his life.

Solitude.

Only silent solitude.