Samuel, Stay Silent!

“How dare you? How fucking dare you, you two-bit grimy piece of waste! I ought to tell everyone of your malfeasance and have you tortured in confinement, you worm!”

“I’m… I’m sorry…”

“Unbelieveable! Get the hell out of here now before I cut your fucking face off and fry it in a pan for breakfast you absolute moron!”

“I’m… I’m going… I’m going, I apologize…”

“Unbelieveable! John, can you believe this guy? That black bearded, pale-faced, long-haired freak!?”

“No partner, I’m just as taken aback as you are. I don’t know if this clown is from out of town or what, but if my eyes ever make contact with his face again, he’s dead! I promise.”

Samuel silently sulked, sashaying away from John and Jim, while their sinister stares seemed to suggest there was something deeply wrong with him. He was new in town and knew the rules, but the rules were dumb and they were fools. Still, suffering in solitude is not a solace, rather a vicissitude. If Samuel sought social vastitude, he would need to change both his behavior and attitude.

While still strolling somberly down the street with not a soul in sight, in his mind Samuel situated a semblance of hope as the pinnacle of what could help him feel alright. He needed a plan to not just avoid John and Jim, but to also prevent himself from making that silly mistake again. He decided he would divorce his soft, silky hair by shaving his head bare; start introducing himself as “Muel” since it sounded a bit more cool; and even though he thought the rules were foolish, he would make sure to follow them to not come off as “ghoulish.”

After several gruelling miles of walking, Muel finally returned to his domicile. Despite being exhausted from the trek, he immediately went to his restroom and located a pair of scissors, a razor, and some shaving cream. First, he delicately cut his seven-inch strands down to their stubs, then obliterated the surviving surface by shaving off what didn’t succumb to the slashes of the short, slender swords. Staring in the mirror, he barely recognized himself. And yet, he still had much left to do. He then lathered his beard and eyebrows with the shaving cream, and proceeded to completely shave them clean.

“I feel so bare!” Muel, joyously exclaimed. “So, so… bare… Oh my God! WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME! I can’t believe I did it again!” he said in disbelief.

Furiously, he ripped off his clothes as he staggered to the shower. He lobbed his garments as far as possible and he unsteadily turned the shower knob with his right hand and braced his left hand on the shower wall as warm water began to descend upon him. Naked and now punching himself in the head repeatedly, he aggressively murmured to himself: “I can’t change, I want to change, I can’t change, I want to change, I want to, I WANT TO, why can’t I…? Who am I? What am I? What is this world? How can I remain in all of this pain? How can I just…? breathe…”

Slowly, now sliding down til’ seated on the ground, Muel started to sob. But, it was a confusing mix of emotions. Intense sorrow, yet more intense euphoria. A complex storm of cerebral thunder, roaring in sync with the crashing of the steady waves that raged above a maleficent undercurrent. As if lost in a reverie, he felt as if he had transcended his hostile, hostage head. He started to smile subtly, yet sacredly.

Soon after, Muel got out of the shower. He dried off and got dressed. Noticing that it was almost dusk, he put on his finest black linens and loafers, and walked to the nearest pub. He felt transformed, rebirthed.

He had never been to this pub before, yet it felt so familiar. Looking around and not seeing the bartender, he decided to sit down next to a beautiful blonde woman sipping sangria, and tried to make conversation.

“Hey there! You evidently have a refined palate. Gria right?”

“Yep, good old Gria. Hahaha, how’d you know?” responded the woman.

“An alcohol connoisseur I’m gathering? I’m Mantha by the way” she continued.

“Not quite, hahaha. But I can recognize Gria from a mile away.”

They passionately locked eyes for what felt like infinity. Swimming through each others’ irises, dancing among galaxies, and almost getting trapped in devious event horizons, they smiled prophetically. Though few words were actually uttered, there was an indescribable, deep chemistry that immediately enveloped both of them.

Returning to his own body and overwhelmed with the sudden flush of excitement, Muel continued “I’m Samuel by the way.”

They both froze. Muel tried to shatter the stun-lock, but sound stayed sequestered in the most remorse regions of his larynx. Tears started to stream down his face.

Mantha looked around and made sure no one else was in earshot. She grabbed his hands, kissed him on the lips, and replied “Don’t worry, Samuel. Stay Silent. We’ll call you Muel from now on.”