The Useless Consolation of Hydrophobia - 3
Wednesday, July 3, 3:53 P.M.
This is the third installment of the novella The Useless Consolation of Hydrophobia
Wednesday, July 3, 3:53 P.M.
The boy vanished.
At the mercy of solitude, despite my strides, like a ceaseless treadmill, the remote horizon eluded my approach.
The sun cast long shadows as if marking time's unwilling passage.
Another figure appeared beside me, a man in his mid-twenties whose age proved hard to gauge.
I had an immediate aversion to him, and for good reason. He began narrating a tale of victimhood—his teachers, peers, and parents all conspiring against him. He expressed his grievances with sophistication but with a peculiar childishness. He declared his creativity vehemently, yet when questioned about his creations, the wind played tricks with his words:
"Discard everything you carry, dear. The vibe thrives on criticism—music, films, art. My secret philosophical musings are like a legitimate minute-long conversation. Brian Eno, Radiohead, Gustav Klimt—remember The Mark Bar? Polaroid pictures? Yes, I enjoy bikes, garages with Minis, Korean dumplings while waiting for a new ride, and organic caffeine—navigate it," he mumbled in a disjointed litany.
Convinced of his indispensability, he repeated his assertions verbatim.
A passing young boy, overhearing the self-praise, shook his head in disdain.
The twit boyishly bemoaned his lack of funds.
“I'm cash-poor, and my girl left me," he moaned.
Jealousy, I thought.—jealousy on this desolate pier?
"They will know me now!" he declared before impulsively leaping into the waters below.
Standing at the railing, I watched him thrashing in the waters. I became aware that I was the sole spectator. No one cared to witness the hopeless struggle unfolding beneath the pier.
I, too, felt little or no pity. I'd only known the man for a few brief moments but seemed to hate him instantly. I was happy to see each ripple of water surround him.
As I watched him die, a peculiar stillness settled over the pier, broken only by the rhythmic lapping of the waves against its pilings.
Casting elongated shadows in the late afternoon, the sun lingered on the horizon.
Questions swirled. What events had led these people to this pier?
I looked down. He was gone, and I was glad, but I wondered what he meant in his ramblings.
Was he unappreciated?
It didn't feel like a tragedy.
I continued to walk.
A low air encircled the pier—such strange encounters. The manchild was gone, and I seemed giddy yet alone and haunted by the waters below.