0

Herbert [Writing Prompt] When people are thought of, they hear those thoughts in their head. You have never heard such a thought.

Herbert was lonesome.

He had always been lonesome. When the other children at school were busy playing with one another, Herbert would just watch from the street.

He imagined having the lives of those kids. Going home to their loving parents, having birthday parties and play dates, and always hearing the reassuring words of other people’s awareness of them echoing in their heads.

This last thing may sound strange, but it was the one thing Herbert wished for more than anything. Where Herbert was from, in that place, when one considered another person – when a thought of any substance about another person, whether good or bad, passed through one’s mind – that other person heard it.

So, as Herbert stood on the street, his face invisible behind the chain link fence of the school basketball court, wishing he was one of those happier boys – those happier boys would have literally heard Herbert’s wish.

Or so Herbert was led to believe by countless books he’d read during his many hours in public libraries. Herbert could not confirm this phenomenon, because after 19 years on Earth, Herbert had never once heard someone else think about him. Not a single, wayward thought.

That was impossible of course. Someone must have thought of Herbert when he was being born, for instance, or as he jumped from foster home to foster home until he was 9. But Herbert couldn’t remember much before the age of 12 – he desperately tried not to remember, in fact – and since that time, living on the street, there hadn’t been a single thought. Or at least, not a thought long enough to register. From time to time, Herbert would brush up against other people’s fleeting disdain, never manifesting as words, only as a vague aggressive aura, which faded as soon as Herbert passed from view.

But this was not what Herbert longed for. He wanted someone, anyone, to really consider him – to think a thought about him, a fully fleshed out thought.

It didn’t even matter to Herbert whether it was positive or negative thought. Herbert would have been satisfied with a long, angry diatribe, or a catechizing speech about Herbert’s failure to pull himself up by the bootstraps. It didn’t matter what the thinker thought, only that it thought about Herbert.

It went on like this for a long time. Each new day which passed in internal and external silence was another small weight placed on the fragile back of Herbert’s threadbare sanity. U ntil , one Thursday – Herbert didn’t know the date, he no longer kept track of such things – Herbert had had enough.

Herbert made up his mind to end it all, the empty charade of his life. He decided he would throw himself into the subway tracks. He stood at the subway platform, his feet right at the edge of the yellow bar, and waited for the next train to arrive.

But as Herbert stood there, doom only moments away, from inside of Herbert’s head came a voice.

Don’t.

Herbert froze and looked around the subway platform. There was no one there.

Don’t jump, mister.

Herbert felt compelled to respond, to think back at the sudden interloper. He scanned the entire subway station with his eyes.

Across from Herbert, past the train tracks, on the other platform headed in the opposite direction, a small boy held in his father’s arms spied Herbert over his father’s shoulder. The boy wore a mask of concern, though he could not be more than a few years old.

When Herbert made eye contact, the boy’s voice came into his head again.

Don’t be sad, mister. Mommy says “If today’s a bad day there’s always tomorrow.”

Herbert stared at the small child, eyes red hot and streaming tears. Before he could muster a rational thought, a train came into the station and Herberts lost sight of him. When the train left the station, the boy and his parents were gone.

Herbert stood there for a long time. Swiping at his eyes with the tattered sleeve of his ratty coat, Herbert slowly backed away from the platform edge and sat down with his back against the cold tile wall.

The train that was supposed to have killed Herbert sped by in a loud blur. Herbert watched the train go and for the first time in decades he did not despair in the silence it left behind.

CLICK A GENRE TO CONTINUE READING A RANDOM FLASH FICTION IN THAT GENRE

READ LONGER STORIES

If You Enjoyed This Story – Or Any Of The Hundreds Of Other Legends From The Multiverse – And Want To Give A Dollar To The Madman Behind The Curtain Who Writes Them All:

Subscribe to the RSS feed or leave a comment anywhere on the r/LFTM subreddit with “!subscribeme” or “subscribeme!”, and you’ll receive a notification whenever a new story or continuation is posted.