- Forum Clout
- 57,091
Eric Hildeman had long since ceased to believe in anything.
It had not happened all at once, but slowly, the way rot sets into wood, eating away at the core before the surface even shows a crack. He had been raised with certain ideas—about love, about right and wrong, about God. But over time, these ideas had revealed themselves to be hollow, empty traditions upheld by those too afraid to face the truth: nothing meant anything.
And so, when Carrie had first spoken of opening their marriage, he had nodded absently. Shrugged. What did it matter? If she wanted it, why not? If she found joy in it, why should he stand in the way? He had long since ceased to care about anything, let alone ownership over something as transient as love.
And then came Dustin
A man out of time. Forty years old but clinging to the arrogance of youth, Dustin spoke with the conviction of someone who had never once considered that he might be wrong. He drifted from job to job, from couch to couch, always railing against “the system” while living off the scraps of those who had resigned themselves to it. He called himself an anarchist. A revolutionary. A man who had seen through the great lie.
Eric did not hate him. Hate required too much effort.
“You think you’re above it all,” Dustin had said one evening, exhaling a plume of smoke toward the ceiling, his boots propped up on the coffee table. “But you’re just another coward, same as the rest of them. Sitting in your little suburban home, pretending detachment makes you superior. It doesn’t.”
Eric had turned a page in the pulp sci-fi novel he was reading—something from the seventies, full of doomed spacemen and existential horror. He hadn’t been listening.
“I think,” Eric said absently, not looking up, “that you talk too much.”
Carrie had laughed at that. She had taken to Dustin’s ideas with the fervor of a convert, repeating them as though they were revelations rather than tired slogans.
“Eric just doesn’t want to engage,” she had said, resting her head against Dustin’s shoulder. “He thinks he’s above it.”
“No,” Dustin had said, grinning. “He just knows he’d lose.”
Eric had smiled at that. A small, barely-there thing. If only Dustin understood how much Eric had already lost.
It continued. Carrie and Dustin spent more and more nights together. Sometimes, Eric heard them laughing from the next room. Sometimes, they were silent. He lay awake regardless, staring at the ceiling, waiting for it all to collapse in on itself, as it always did.
And then, one night, Dustin struck Carrie.
Eric was in the next room, reclining in his chair, his book balanced on his chest, half-asleep. The sound was sudden, sharp—a dull impact, followed by a small, surprised gasp.
He exhaled.
He waited.
Silence.
Then, Dustin’s voice. Low, almost measured. “You have to understand. You push and push, and eventually—”
Carrie whimpered.
Eric closed his book. Stared at the ceiling. This was the part where he was supposed to do something.
He was supposed to stand up, to confront Dustin, to throw him out, to prove that there was some line that could not be crossed.
But there wasn’t.
Not really.
Instead, he sat there. Waited.
And sure enough, Dustin emerged a few moments later, rolling his shoulders, his expression unreadable. His lip curled slightly when he saw Eric still sitting there, doing nothing.
Dustin chuckled. “Of course.”
Eric met his gaze. There was no anger in his expression. No challenge. Just the same quiet, weightless indifference.
“Are you done?” Eric asked.
Dustin studied him for a long moment, something flickering behind his eyes—disgust, amusement, maybe even pity.
Then he shrugged. “Yeah. I’m done.”
Carrie did not come out for a long time. When she did, she did not look at Eric.
She sat down on the couch beside him, curled in on herself. He could see the faint redness at the corner of her mouth. The way her hands trembled slightly in her lap.
For a long time, neither of them spoke.
Then, in a small, broken voice, she whispered: “You just let it happen.”
Eric did not respond.
Because she was right.
He turned back to his book.
It had not happened all at once, but slowly, the way rot sets into wood, eating away at the core before the surface even shows a crack. He had been raised with certain ideas—about love, about right and wrong, about God. But over time, these ideas had revealed themselves to be hollow, empty traditions upheld by those too afraid to face the truth: nothing meant anything.
And so, when Carrie had first spoken of opening their marriage, he had nodded absently. Shrugged. What did it matter? If she wanted it, why not? If she found joy in it, why should he stand in the way? He had long since ceased to care about anything, let alone ownership over something as transient as love.
And then came Dustin
A man out of time. Forty years old but clinging to the arrogance of youth, Dustin spoke with the conviction of someone who had never once considered that he might be wrong. He drifted from job to job, from couch to couch, always railing against “the system” while living off the scraps of those who had resigned themselves to it. He called himself an anarchist. A revolutionary. A man who had seen through the great lie.
Eric did not hate him. Hate required too much effort.
“You think you’re above it all,” Dustin had said one evening, exhaling a plume of smoke toward the ceiling, his boots propped up on the coffee table. “But you’re just another coward, same as the rest of them. Sitting in your little suburban home, pretending detachment makes you superior. It doesn’t.”
Eric had turned a page in the pulp sci-fi novel he was reading—something from the seventies, full of doomed spacemen and existential horror. He hadn’t been listening.
“I think,” Eric said absently, not looking up, “that you talk too much.”
Carrie had laughed at that. She had taken to Dustin’s ideas with the fervor of a convert, repeating them as though they were revelations rather than tired slogans.
“Eric just doesn’t want to engage,” she had said, resting her head against Dustin’s shoulder. “He thinks he’s above it.”
“No,” Dustin had said, grinning. “He just knows he’d lose.”
Eric had smiled at that. A small, barely-there thing. If only Dustin understood how much Eric had already lost.
It continued. Carrie and Dustin spent more and more nights together. Sometimes, Eric heard them laughing from the next room. Sometimes, they were silent. He lay awake regardless, staring at the ceiling, waiting for it all to collapse in on itself, as it always did.
And then, one night, Dustin struck Carrie.
Eric was in the next room, reclining in his chair, his book balanced on his chest, half-asleep. The sound was sudden, sharp—a dull impact, followed by a small, surprised gasp.
He exhaled.
He waited.
Silence.
Then, Dustin’s voice. Low, almost measured. “You have to understand. You push and push, and eventually—”
Carrie whimpered.
Eric closed his book. Stared at the ceiling. This was the part where he was supposed to do something.
He was supposed to stand up, to confront Dustin, to throw him out, to prove that there was some line that could not be crossed.
But there wasn’t.
Not really.
Instead, he sat there. Waited.
And sure enough, Dustin emerged a few moments later, rolling his shoulders, his expression unreadable. His lip curled slightly when he saw Eric still sitting there, doing nothing.
Dustin chuckled. “Of course.”
Eric met his gaze. There was no anger in his expression. No challenge. Just the same quiet, weightless indifference.
“Are you done?” Eric asked.
Dustin studied him for a long moment, something flickering behind his eyes—disgust, amusement, maybe even pity.
Then he shrugged. “Yeah. I’m done.”
Carrie did not come out for a long time. When she did, she did not look at Eric.
She sat down on the couch beside him, curled in on herself. He could see the faint redness at the corner of her mouth. The way her hands trembled slightly in her lap.
For a long time, neither of them spoke.
Then, in a small, broken voice, she whispered: “You just let it happen.”
Eric did not respond.
Because she was right.
He turned back to his book.
Last edited:
