Mr. Ponty ran. He wasn’t running away, he wasn’t running in an attempt to catch something. He was running becouse running was the ”in” thing among gentlemen such as himself. His newly bought sweatpants sagged a little. His running shoes were two sizes too large. Mr. Ponty was used to buying too large items for himself, just in case he was to grow up a little still.
Needless to say, he was already out of breath. His legs were failing him so he paused to sit on a nearby bench. He tried sweeping away the sweat from his forehead with a sleeve of his shirt, but it didn’t really help. He could not understand how his collegues could possibly enjoy these insane ordeals.
Mr. Ponty worked in a pharmacy. He was quite adept at his work although frequently he managed to impress bystanders with his unsurpassable clumsiness. He had very shaky hands. Shaky hands was believed to be the worst possible attribute to a pharmacist. And Mr. Ponty was the person who initiated this belief. Considering this, it was amazing that he had kept his job, but he was after all very knowledgeable in his trade. So knowledgeable that whenever a problem arose in any of the country’s pharmacies that no-one else seemed to be able to solve, they would immediatelly think of Mr. Ponty and his short figure, curly hair, his face somehow resembling a potato.
His collegues had long ago convinced him not to bother doing any of the physical labour in the workshop. They said it was becouse a man of his caliber shouldn’t bother with such lowly tasks, but it was mostly to save themselves the trouble of having to clean up after him. This arrangement suited each party just fine.
The park sparkled in the rays of the descending autumn sun. Not many days left and leaves would start to wither and the whole scenery would morph in to gold. Mr. Ponty rose and dragged himself to his apartment no more than 300 yards away.
He lived in a small apartment, formerly known as an attic. It was not that he couldn’t afford a better residence, but he was a modest man and had long ago taken liking to the place. He lived mostly alone, being already quite the old man he was, he had already given up on finding his own sweetheart a long time ago. He had always kept a pet however, to try brighten up his lonely days. As he entered his sanctuary he immediatelly crouched upon its small cage:
”My dear Susan. Haven’t you touched your dinner at all today? I fear, have you gotten sick with the passage of time.” He opened the cage and closely observed his pet parakeet. Susan hardly croaked to greet him and turned away to continue its slumber.
”I should have gotten you a partner to cheer you up, should I have not?”
He left her alone and changed to his casual outfit, which was not at all casual. He took a quick glance at his personal collection of drugs and equipment on his mahogany desk. Hesitantly he grasped a glass vial of clear liquid in his hands. His face turned into that of sadness.
”Could I have changed the whole world with you?”, he said with his gaze upon the vial.
”I should be truly happy, inventing you, confining in you for all these hundreds of years, yet my life seems so empty and dull, without any sparkle shining through this heavy dust that shrouds my vision. Why is it so desirable for a man to continue living? Should there not be a time and place to… go.”, he whispered yet his lips were reaching for the end of the vial already. He slowly halted.
”Perhaps it was becouse of my selfishness that I never shared you. No, I was scared. I feared what this world would become like. Changing the humankind so rapidly. How could I possibly take responsibility for it? I never knew how hard it would be. Truly, this has been on my heart for so long.”
His hands were starting to shake again. He sat down on his workbench, feeling if he didn’t he would soon faint. He felt sick to his stomach. The sun cast its last rays through a small arc window. He sat silent staring at the tilted ceiling. Not moving a muscle he tried remembering his earlier years, but the images had long faded and everything seemed so blurry.
He had started writing a diary after realising how limited a man’s capacity of remembering things was, but it was long after his sad invention. He could not remember faces or voices of his relatives or friends. He couldn’t tell where we has from, or from what decade. His eyes started to moisten and his nose felt hot. His throat felt sore.
The vial crashed as it hit the ground after its short flight.
”No more, my lovely Susan. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for having you go through all this with me. Lets end this stupid journey. ”
