A Piece of the Scenery

This story is by Chris Nelson and was a runner-up in our 2024 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

Chris Nelson, originally from the South, moved to New York to pursue a film career before transitioning to sports marketing in Los Angeles. Seeking a creative outlet, he discovered writing later in life, and found a strong desire to move the stories that lived in his head out into the world.

ACT ONE: THE LOVER

Maybe if you keep your feet planted, nobody will notice the hole stretching at your heel.

Nice going dumbass. Why’d I have to pick these socks?

You definitely feel very, very awkward. You’re not like the other boys. Your family’s just plain off. People sense it. You’re poor. A charity case. And those damn socks let everybody know it!

You’re clutching a wall, getting pushed further and further into the scenery. Tables and chairs are having more fun than you. On any other night, you would be back home reading your comics, but tonight you’re looking for a girl. The one you’ve been pining for since day one. The day that Troglodyte lit the back of your hair on fire.

Well what do you know? There she is. With her cute little dimples in her pretty little cheeks housing her perfect little smile. No wonder you like her. Her socks are the little anklet ones that fold over and have lace and frills and tiny decorations. And your socks look like they stink!

Your heart’s beating a little faster. Your hands are sweating. If your eyes dilate any more, people might think you’re on something. What’re you waiting for?

Oh yeah, your socks. Who cares? Go over to her now. Make a joke of it. Dance a little. Be a clown. Girls like a sense of humor.

She smiles at you. But you look away. You’ve clearly disappointed her, she dropped her head a little. She must think you don’t like her. If you act now…but those damn socks of yours!

You feel like a rat is eating your stomach from the inside out. Your feet are slats of the floorboards. You’re a statue. Barely able to breathe.

You better get a move on it. Look who’s walking her way: that Trog with the lighter. If you don’t do something about it now, you’re going to be sidelined your whole life. Always on the outside looking in. Unnoticed. Unappreciated. Insignificant. Go! Before it’s too late.

She looks at you one more time. But, again you look away. Get over yourself and make a move before she thinks you don’t care. Before he gets to her.

Too late. He’s already there. He must have cracked a joke, because she’s smiling. She holds his hand. They step out to the dance floor.

All the energy trapped in you farts out like a sat on whoopee cushion. You’re deflated, defeated. A permanent fixture on the wall. An extra. From the pages of Central Casting. Not even a Featured Extra. Just GUY #2, page 73. No longer the Lead, no longer in focus.

 

ACT TWO: THE HERO

The night is cool and quiet. A car passes you by. Life passes you by. The bus is late but you’re too tired to care.

A man and a woman are walking your way. His arms flail as he talks. She’s looking at anything but him.

What’re they arguing about? Did he do something wrong? Did She?

This is what your life has come to: watching other people live theirs in the distance.

Oh my God! It’s Her! With Him! All these years and they’re still together. 

You feel a hand reach into your chest and squeeze your withered heart. She should be yours. He’s living your life.

She slaps him hard. He’s Mount Vesuvius. Ready to erupt. Maybe this is your shot all over again, to be the Lead you were always supposed to be.

He grabs her by the throat, slams her to the ground, and kicks her. She’s a tormented wretch crying at his feet.

Your teeth clench. Your fists ball up. You’re trembling, and your legs are weak. You want to run to her rescue and knock his block off. But you’re stuck. Your ass is a part of the bench. You can’t do anything. You’re just a guy waiting on a bus. Nothing more.

Some Men rush to the scene. They do what you were supposed to do. “This ain’t right. You shouldn’t be hitting a woman,” they say. You see his rigid posture break. You see self-loathing wash over his face as it dawns on him what he just did. Then you see something worse: you actually witness her forgive him.

You’re really fighting back tears as she walks away holding his hand, just like at Freshman dance. You missed your shot then and you missed it now. This is how you live your life. You interfere with no one, and no one notices you.

You’re alone again. And that damn bus is still late. You just want to get home to that tiny little apartment of yours and drink some lousy beer. Drink the night away. Drink your life away. Drink your shame away. The shame that scrapes your bones, gnaws at and sucks the marrow. The shame that ulcerates your stomach lining.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to turn out. You were supposed to be somebody, the Lead. But you’re just GUY #2. Page 73 from Central Casting. A piece of furniture. Not even in focus.

 

ACT THREE: THE MARTYR

You’re back at high school. A janitor now. You walk the halls, looking in each room, watching boring teachers give their boring lessons to bored students. You pass the library. There’s a new face.

She’s cute. Really cute. Especially for her age. Must be a substitute.

But you know that face.

Holy shit! It’s Her! I can’t let her see me. Not like this.

You scurry along to your janitor closet. You yearned for this woman all your life, and now you’re hiding. The seconds seem like hours. You feel like such a loser.

A shadow stops by your door, then walks away. You carefully peek out. It’s Him! A little fatter, going bald now, but there’s no mistaking. It’s him.

And he has a revolver! And he’s clearly drunk. Your boring, safe job just turned into a nightmare.

He staggers in front of the library. She’s in the library! He fumbles around on the door handle.

What can I do? I’m out of shape, slow. He has a gun. And I’m just armed with a mop. I’m no hero. I’m a coward and always have been.

He walks in. You have no choice, you have to do something. And there’s no time to spare.

He left the door ajar. You creep in slowly behind him.

The library has an eldritch quiet to it. The Trog is oozing sweat. He wipes the revolver across his brow, trying to clear his malfunctioning mind. And there she is, shielding a handful of students frozen to their seats in torment from that manic gunman.

Your nerves are aflame. Your heart beats at a tempo you cannot fathom. You wish you were anywhere but where you are now. You feel like throwing up.

That’ll be a good look. ‘News at 11. Hero foils active shooter with vomit.’ 

Your synapses are on overdrive. Your motherboard is frying. You know you have to arm yourself but all around are stacks of books. ‘War and Peace.’ That’s what you need. It’s an anvil.

But you knock over one of the stacks. And he sees you. Better think fast.

You hurl the first book you reach for. ‘Leaves of Grass’ flies in his face. This distracts him, but he still manages to fire one off. The pages erupt into a downpour of pulp fragments. The students’ piercing screams rage in chorus. All you hear is shrill feedback.

Then you make like a Cowboys lineman. More like a broken down has-been in your case.

Another shot. A locomotive hits you. But it doesn’t stop your forward momentum. You crash into him. You both roll to the floor.

Another blast. A window explodes. This gives them all just enough time to escape.

Maybe the alcohol weakened him, maybe it’s the adrenaline coursing through your veins, but you’re overtaking him. You work your way to his back, wrap your overly taxed legs around his waist, and wrestle with his revolver hand for dear life.

You’re getting very, very tired. Sweating like a sieve. And shivering and cold and developing violent rigors. Either he pissed on you or you pissed on yourself because your pants are soaked. You clutch his head and neck, and yank with all your might.

He fires a few more off, then starts to weaken, struggling a little less and less. But you don’t dare let him go. He goes limp. But you don’t dare let…

She’s standing over me….

she looks just as beautiful…

as the night of the sock hop…

the light above her head makes…

a circle and gets…

smaller…

and smaller…

“You can let him go now,” she says, “You saved us.” Her voice is fading…

I’ve been a nobody my whole life. A piece of scenery. An extra. Now I’m the Lead. The Hero.

I’m bleeding out…

I’m dying…

 

THE END