Jed Wolf

“I would drop it if I could,” he screamed like a bald Rapunzel in a prison tower. “That’s her story, not mine!” 

His story was about a boy who was born into a family where something was always wrong. Growing up where nothing was ever just right taught him he wasn’t either and nothing else could ever be.

He’d approach a simple gate thinking, “This gate needs paint. It’s rotting a bit and needs a new latch.” Seeing a cat he’d think, “This cat would look better with longer fur, nicer eyes and its meow is far too grating.” But most upsetting of all were mirrors. Bombarded by assessments of his own reflection, he always averted his eyes. 

Though people said he’d become a fetching fellow, he couldn’t believe them. While judging his spit, brushing his teeth, all he could see glancing up was his fat face, thin hair, and puckish nose. 

He trusted no one’s opinions especially his own which descended like hounds on everything in his path. Nature was spared as he sought the least boring trails to torment himself on.

One day he heard singing. It sounded so free, he thought it might be an acceptable way to be human, so he gave it a try but alas, he hated his voice and the attention it drew made him even more anxious. 

To keep from being questioned, he pretended to be happy around others which lead to becoming an actor. It was far easier to control than risk vulnerability he thought, until people began to see through his act.  

Everywhere he went people wanted to fix him which made him feel more broken, so he isolated, spent more time gardening and over-achieving until his misery spiraled around him, lifting him towards the sky.

“I’ve alienated myself because I am an alien,” he shouted from his prison tower while no one understood as usual why he didn’t simply come back down. 

Looking around he realized how at home he felt up there. The bed was comfortable and his unwillingness to leave it felt inevitable until he realized it was in the exact same tower he’d visited his miserable parents in before they died. 

He got up looked out the window, took a few minutes to absorb the colors of the setting sun, then he headed down the stairs. 

At the base of the lighthouse was an old gate and a cat whose yowls made him laugh. He hummed as he closed the gate behind him, grateful he’d never had kids, then broke into “Shenandoah,” heading down the path imagining how relieved everyone would be that he’d finally found his way home.