Stirring Point

*The following is a short piece of fiction, aimed at developing a character from an odd point of view.*

His face told a story of pain, as if death somehow found him before life did. Being alive was not the same as living. He moved, shifted, breathed and ate. These were chores, not pleasures, and cost more energy than they were worth. Others strolled while he plodded. They smiled while he stared. They licked grease from their fingers while he swallowed mush for the sake of nourishment. 

He often wondered why he was the only seed that survived. Of the two hundred million swimmers, he was the limpest of the bunch. It troubled him to stand on the podium, the sole survivor, while the others slipped into obscurity. They were potential mathematicians and playwrights, oncologists and Olympians, all duking it out to reach the ovum. And somehow, he, the barren mass of head and tail, stood apart and bested them all. Nature was both cruel and indifferent, a paradox impossible to rationalize.

As a child, the “mistake” of life stuck to him like sour body odor. While the other kids played freeze tag and dangled from the monkey bars, he’d sit and watch their happiness roll by like cars on a passing train. He wanted to envy them and feel the heat of jealousy flush through his cheeks. Had God aborted his emotions and lobotomized his feelings while he was still in the womb? Despair was heavy, but it carried a weight he knew how to lift. It was the hollow moments when emotion never arrived that gave the world its plastic taste.

Women gave him a rise, but only because of his evolutionary programming. His genes engaged in a call and response with the opposite sex, starting as a lump in his throat, then plunging into the pit of his gut. His brain knew better than to force desire any further south; it was certain he was unfit for procreation no matter what his body beckoned. 

Besides, he’d never understand their needs beyond his “donorship.” He’d never know the internal shudder born from a woman’s glance. He’d never hear the silent screams of obsession rattle around the confines of his mind. He’d never grasp how the scent of the right woman could buckle a grown man’s knees. These were mysteries and they would stay that way—until she walked through the door…

21 years of hapless existence flushed from his body in a single purge. The dimples, the curls, the glow of her skin. She was the connective tissue the world lacked. Her eyes flooded his lungs with air and brought moisture back to his desert tongue. Every bit of her was an archetype of proportion—Michangelo’s David—dressed in a J.Crew sweater. Where had she come from? And how could one person inspire complete salvation? He had to meet her.