Malaise of Youth (Original Short Fiction)

Cory dropped his head onto the bartop, his glass shuddering momentarily, threatening to spill the amber ale within. The bartender looked over concernedly for a moment before returning to the drink he was pouring for another patron.

“What’s up?” Daniel asked, nudging his drinking partner. Cory groaned loudly, several other people looking over in inebriated curiosity. Daniel nudged him a few more times, Cory groaning louder each time.

“Come on,” Daniel finally said with a sigh, “we came here to relax and have a good time. Pick yourself up and drink for Christ’s sake.”

“That’s just it,” Cory said, suddenly throwing his head up. “That’s all we ever do. We’ve been ‘relaxing and having a good time’ for years. I’m 25 years old and I’m drinking myself to death in a pub with my friend. My male friend. I’m going to die young and alone.” Cory dropped his head back onto the bartop, everyone’s drinks shaking from the sudden force. Daniel jabbed his friend in the side.

“Don’t make a scene,” he said. “Besides, you’re not that bad off.” Cory groaned loud enough for everyone in the pub to hear him. Daniel decided to switch tactics. “Well,” he said, “dying young and alone is better than dying old and alone, right?” Cory tossed back his head to stare his friend dead in the eyes, then turned away and bottomed his pint before dropping his head back onto the bar, clanking his glass several times to get the bartender’s attention and signal for another beer.

“No, Daniel,” he mumbled against the clear acrylic-coated wood, “it’s worse.” Daniel smirked as he took a drink. The bartender motioned to Cory as though to question whether he was fit for another round. Daniel nodded once and watched as he filled another glass, then grinned as Cory lifted up his head to take a sip.

“Alright, Cor,” Daniel said, “how exactly is it worse?” Cory shot him a displeased look with his eyebrows, then lowered his head again.

“Because I still have hope,” Cory said with a detestably harsh groan. Daniel laughed.

“So, you still have hope, and that makes your situation worse?”

Cory threw his head back up. “Yes, you bastard,” he said suddenly. “Hope is the most vile thing in the world. As long as people have hope, they’re filled with fanciful ‘what if’s. They still think that everything can turn around for them. Hope is awful.” Cory took a swig as Daniel laughed.

“I think you’re confusing ‘false hope’ with regular hope, Cor,” he said, taking another drink. Cory shook his head vigorously.

“No, you ass, you don’t get it. It’s all the same. I’m not too fargone yet, according to society, but when you take realistic stock of my life, where am I? Like I said, I’m 25 and I’m drinking myself to death in a pub with my male friend. I don’t actually deserve any hope, because I’m hopeless, but society still tells me that I should have it, so I do. That’s what makes me so miserable. That’s what makes dying young and alone so much worse than dying old and alone. At least when you’re old, you have time to come to terms with it. You’re facing your own mortality and obsolescence every day. But I’m still young by their standards. Hell, men nearly a decade younger than me were fighting and dying in wars fifty years ago, and for what? For me to be a miserable sack of shit, drinking pint after pint of swill until my liver collapses, because I have so much goddamn freedom that I don’t even know what to do with it?”

Daniel patted his friend on the arm.

“Easy, Cor,” he said in a hushed tone, “you’re getting a bit riled up.” Cory shrugged him off and dropped his head back down onto the bartop.

“It’s hope, Dan,” Cory mumbled. “It’s hope that’s keeping me alive, and it’s hope that’s killing me. I would do better without it. It’s better than this horrible limbo.”

The bartender looked over with a raised eyebrow as though to ask whether Daniel and his drinking partner were alright. Daniel nodded once more and signaled for another round. It was just one of those nights. Cory would be alright after a few more drinks.

I've been on silent running for a while now, but I am alive and still writing. While I work on some bigger (and, admittedly, better) things, here's something short and somewhat satirical I wrote for a friend of mine. It seems an alarming number of people in my generation are realizing that their lives have passed them by, but it's worth remembering that it's not adversity, but prosperity that breeds discontent. You only have it so bad because you have it so good.