a piece of fiction, perhaps?

#literature 2 min read

There is a bead of sweat on his forehead. Veins showing, red forehead. The expression on his face is tumultuous. Beyond distinguishable, as if all the emotions have found a host in one single face. A creature? Not possible. He is not a creature. I doubt if he is even an organism. He can simply be reduced to an amoeba.

His red forehead, trying very hard to compensate for his ridiculous tininess incites me. It makes me frown, with sheer superiority. Yes, I am far more superior. Far more intelligent and capable. The word comes to my lips, but I refrain to malevolently block him from the truth: "pathetic".

Instead I look down on him with my tired eyes, and see him shouting, salivating and drooling. So furious and so upset; it makes me want to flick him with my middle finger. But I do not. I observe with discretion. I choose not to intervene. I think, of course, he might as well be acting; a theatrical performance showing the very best of his tribe. A tribe filled with barbaric rage and commitment.

He is tired now, I see. And now I feel pity for him. Are those tears on his obscure face? The organism sits, putting his legs close to his chest, holding them with his puny hands and looks at me. For the first time in his pantomime, I felt something invade me. His cold eyes, straight into mine.

In his eyes I see the same disgust I feel for him. I shiver. What is happening? He stands up and calls to me.

"I blame you for my sins, for you did not give me the things that I wanted."

I thought that I would be challenged and thrilled- that would've been amusing. Instead, he starts a petty argument. This is not worth my time. It is not well for me to spend my energy to answer to a microscopic organism. But I had to answer. I could not resist. I laughed.

And I could see him with a red forehead with a bead of sweat on it. The expression on his face is tumultuous.

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