The One Without A Face

A short story about a man born without a face. It could be worse, as he says.

I don't think my dad really loved me.

I mean, that much is obvious. I wasn't lovable as a child, not enough for him to stick around anyways. My mama cared enough, but I think with the long workdays and longer times spent home with a neighbor she didn't have the time to consider whether or not her child was good enough. As long as she came home to a house that looked the same as she left it, nothing else mattered. So many days it was just me and the echo in my walls, reminding me that I was stuck by myself.

Of course, that was years ago - decades at this point now. I'm an adult living my life one day at a time, forging through the oddly unsatisfying childhood I was dealt to make a bit of money here and there. Corporate analyst, a made up job that involves a few meetings and spreadsheets a week. I'm actually quite good at it, if my paystubs each month have anything to say for it. I should be grateful really, it could be worse.

For one, I'm surprised they hired someone who's missing their face.

Keep in mind now, I don't mean that I'm ugly. Far from it actually; I have quite the jawline if I do say so myself, and I take very good care of my skin and my hair. I do mean it in the literal sense of the phrase: I do not have a face. No eyes, no nose, no mouth, no eyebrows. Nothing. It's quite surprising to say the least, but nobody seems to react. I can see and breathe just fine, I can eat somehow. Whatever strange God or Spirit up above decided all that for me, who's to say. But at the very least I do still stand by the one phrase that keeps my life going: it could be worse.

Like yesterday for example. I wake up, I get to work, go to meetings, pretend to be busy until it's time to leave. Rinse and repeat, just as normal. Could be worse, right? It's all about perspective. Anything could've gone wrong yesterday. The bridge could've gone out during my commute, the coffeemaker could've exploded, the building could've caught fire... anything. Yet it was business as usual, just like every other day of my life.

So tell me, why exactly am I stuck laying here, stab wound to my belly? Certainly a good question if I ever asked. I'd have to chalk it up to... hm, bad luck? Or maybe idiocy? Who's to say which it could be. I guess in the end, I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or for the guy who wanted to stab me and leave me for dead, the right place at the right time. Left leaned up against a crumbling brick wall, feeling the slow drip of the starting rain on my featureless cheeks. Any second I'd be discovered, a fuss would be made. It'll be dreadful talking to police and whatnot, but I suppose that's another part of everyday life for some people.

Strangers began to pass by one by one, not a single one sparing a glance my way.

How odd. Even without a face, you'd think people would spare some time to help one of their own in need, right?

Step, step, pass.

I mean, it's not ridiculous to expect someone to help, right? Right?

Step, step, pass.

I've done good for this world, even without my face! Surely, surely! ...Surely?

Step, step, pass. Step, step, pass.

...Ah. I get it. Hah. Hahah.

How pitiful, really. Of me, I mean. You know, to assume I was one of them. One of the normal folk with a normal life, a normal chance at survival. I was born without a face after all.

It could be worse, I think to myself, but I know it's not true anymore.