And The Masses Went On

• Dinethra Patabendige, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2020

It was another sunny, clear-skied day; the weather was warm, and a mild breeze danced through the streets, gently caressing the leaves of the autumn trees. The crisp and salty pang of fish and chips wafted through the air, accompanied by the occasional chime of a door being opened and closed. The sounds of vehicles filled the air with their mechanical cries, but were somehow dulled into the background by the underlying noises of the plaza, of which were produced by the people themselves.

They flowed unceasingly, like a gushing river, yet still managed to maintain a sense of individuality. It was as if the men, women and children all blended together into one, singular organism, and participated in the same goal for the same reason - like ants, making their way out of their nest in a single, overwhelming unit. It was a scene of uncompromising will; yet no one truly knew what they, nor anyone else, was trying to achieve.

No one, that was, except for the man at the corner of the fish and chip shop.

He was adorned in a 3 piece costume; dark-grey trousers accompanied by a pair of straight, laceless shoes, and a white, short-sleeved shirt, upon which was a black vest, sprouting a folded, triangular handkerchief from a pocket. His left arm shone gold; it was swallowed up by 3 large watches, and from time to time, the man would run his hand over them, carefully and lovingly. He possessed a moderate build, and stood at an average height, similar to those around him.

Despite this, the man stood aside from the rest of the crowd. He watched them go about their affairs, their lives unwinding second by second, minute by minute, in front of him. He was the witness to every breath they took, every word they spoke, and every decision they made. And he knew what they were all doing.

A short distance to the man’s right was a creature, abhorrent to the eye and repulsive to the senses, lying in a spreading pool of pungent but aromatic liquid. He was a thin, gaunt character, unshaven and uncleansed, and wore upon himself nothing but a sweat-soaked shirt covered in holes, and torn trousers. He was in a fetal position, curled up into himself, and was shivering violently. A scrap of cardboard scrawled with unreadable writing lay over the man, functioning as both a blanket and a plea for help.

The man loomed over the sad, broken figure, and spoke.

“You sicken me,” he spat. “You don’t deserve help. You had a chance at life, a better chance than most, and you spent it all on booze and dope. Looking at you now, even I’d prefer to just keep walking. Anyone would just… keep -” And then, the man was on the ground, shivering and crying with self-loathing, all the while feeling the place where his watches used to be.

It was another sunny, clear-skied day, and the masses went on with their ignorance.