Every morning John would wake up, get dressed, and wander into his kitchen. John would examine the room with hate. His home was not desirable, it was an old black house, covered with a shabby roof in which there were several leaks. Pushed into a corner on a musty street right next to a convenience store, in which John did much of his shopping. This household was not suited for his stature. He stood nearly eight feet tall, all his limbs were quite often likened to branches on a dead tree in the coldest months of winter, and his entire body hadn’t had a proper bathing in what seemed like years. The color of his eyes was that of roses that had been wilting due to the lack of water from an abusive owner. Dusty, alone, and grouchy, not much attention was ever paid to this grotesque man. Hence, he did not receive many visitors. The house would never be cleaned. Though, even then, John wouldn’t care for tidying up. He believed that was of the opposite sex’s responsibility. This view had been out-dated for some time, but it is what was implanted into his impressionable mind when he was a child.

Adulthood brought the responsibility of having a job, but this just added to John’s miserable existence. He worked as a carpenter, his creations betrayed his appearance. While he was ugly, what he made was magnificent. Nobody really believed that such a man could make these buildings. He often would be contracted by poor families, those were the only people who could bear his appearance and his stench, therefore, he was quite popular with these characters, but it came with unfavorable hours.

By the time he arrived home, clearly past the time that he was supposed to, his large brown trench-coat had turned black due to the rain that had brewed outside. John growled as he looked out his kitchen window, viewing the despicable weather. He firmly believed that whatever higher power existed was trying to make his day as utterly miserable as possible. Wet, angry, and with a sense of pride he limped under the archway from his kitchen to the small living room that doubled as his bedroom. As he strode into this area he whipped his neck around to a lump under a piece stained linen. John picked the linen up by the corners and cautiously removed it from the mass. He sat down on a bench right next to what was his piano. His long fingers danced across the ivory slabs with swift agility, hitting each note with confidence. His back straight, fingers taught as he performed for his audience of one. The most beautiful symphony was executed, each note exactly where it needed to be, nothing halted the progression of the keys that were struck. The pace of his fingers slowed until coming to a full stop, he ceased playing, blaming it on the numbness in his leg. Sudden speculations of who to blame flooded into his lame mind.

John’s mind had a tendency to wonder. Most of these thoughts, at least to his peers, of which he did not have many of, weren’t very realistic. He believed that God was to blame for his impairment. Ever since he discovered his talent in music and architecture his body acted negatively. John thought that having all these talents would make him beautiful but with his deformed profile this belief and his belief in God dwindled drastically. John utterly hated himself, believing no human in their right mind would ever come to have sympathy or love for him. With a sigh, he attempted to lift his limp leg over the other, using his deformed backside to shift off the stool. Once his feet were planted firmly on the carpet he made his way back into the kitchen. His dead eyes darted over to the pantry, in which, the only items were a pack of out-of-date bread and a half empty jar of blackberry jam.

Grabbing a dull knife, he opened the jam, and dug the knife into the viscous liquid like a dagger impaled into flesh. Taking the black substance out of its glass casing, he spread it upon a moldy piece of bread. Large amounts of the jelly sat on the bread. He then gladly gnawed on the treat, he couldn’t fathom digesting anything other than this. It is all he bought, all he consumed.

Everyday was the same routine, he liked it that way. No surprises, just expectations. Once finished, he wiped his mouth and hands with his handkerchief that had accumulated so much that it hardly appeared white and pristine. His boney legs shuffled back into the only other room in the house. He sat down on the couch, a plume of dust arose, creating a miasma of harsh smelling crumbs and flakes. Fully seated, he picked up a clearly outdated newspaper, which was stained and worn, having been read over and over again. As the routine went, he began to read. Once again, his right leg started to lose feeling, ignoring the electric like tingling with a heavy sigh. Further and further into the newspaper John’s eyes examined, the text as black as his eyes. He felt his arms, torso, and neck lose all feeling. No longer could he feel the crummy paper between his sore fingers. No longer. No longer. The roses finally closed their buds. For good.