The Dark Side of the Moon

By Evan Drake

© 2019, Evan Drake, All Rights
Reserved

Carter stared at his home computer screen, tapping one long,
bony, scaly finger on the desk in an uneven rhythm while chewing on his finger
nails. Taking up a large portion of the screen was one of his old pictures.
Standing up straight at five-eleven, Picture Carter stared back, a half-smile
on his face accentuating his short, square muzzle and bright yellow snake-like
eyes. His brown, short-cut hair was brushed and well-trimmed. He still had his
striking facial features, nothing could take that away. Carter grumbled under
his breath and flicked his forked tongue across his lips as he ran a hand
through his hair which now better resembled a dust mop. His smile was not what
it once was. Carter ran a finger down the jagged-pink scar on his left cheek
which stood out even more thanks to the mud-brown scales covering every inch of
his body. It was worse whenever he tried to flash his once award-winning smile.
There was a time when he could've gotten anything he wanted just looking at
someone. Now, he was lucky if he could convince someone to tell him what time
it was.

            Picture Him
stood there, smiling with his friends and wearing a sweater he had received one
Christmas by some designer whose name he couldn't remember. Carter looked down
at his current outfit: the plain grey t-shirt he now wore was a size too large
and covered in mustard stains, and the edges of the sleeves were beginning to
show years worth of wear and tear. His bottoms weren't much better. Instead of
being covered in stains from yesterday's lunch, it was dingy and worn with a
hole just above the right knee. Carter stuck a finger in the hole wondering
when it appeared and if it truly mattered. He gave his picture one last look,
wondering if instead of posting things on social media, should he clean up and
try to put his life back together.

            He sighed and
typed the words “Out celebrating my new job!" in bold font and clicked the post
button at the bottom of the screen. People didn't need to know he was actually
fired, and then dumped. They didn't need to know that instead of celebrating
with his friends, he was wasting away at home reminiscing about how good he
used to look.

            Carter was
sure he wasn't the only one who felt that way. He often saw the posts of his
friends on social media talking about how good their lives were and how they
loved life only to receive a phone call from not even two hours later from them
cursing, screaming, and crying about the life they so proudly flaunted for
random strangers.

            The computer's
notification tone rang, breaking the stagnant silence of the room. He turned to
the screen and saw the picture already had 10 likes and a comment. His thick tail
shaking slightly with annoyance beneath him, he clicked the comment
notification. The comment came from a user he didn't recognize and contained
only the single word “congrats!" followed by a half-dozen smiling emojis.

            He snorted
at the comment. A random stranger contacted him more than his own brother. With
a heavy sigh, he stood up from the computer chair and walked toward the kitchen,
scratching his slightly pudgy stomach as he walked, his three-toed claws
clicking on the wooden floor in desperate need of a good mopping. I'm
gaining weight again, he thought. If he cared, he would start working out
again, but he stopped caring a long time ago.

            Perhaps he
would make a game of it. Let everything about himself go, stop washing, cutting
his hair, and maintaining his figure. Then post pictures of himself surrounded
by the detritus of the life he once had and see how many people would maintain
their facade of cheerful bullshit before someone finally said what they were
really thinking. Perhaps they would try to blandish him into fitting their
supposed image with soft, comforting words. Or maybe, realizing the hideous
truth, they would leave him alone.

            He didn't bother
turning on the light in the kitchen, resolving to maunder about in the only source
of light coming from the computer screen. He grabbed a can of beer from the refrigerator
and a box of crackers from the cabinet and shuffled back to the computer.

            “It's five-'o-clock
somewhere, right?" he asked the silence then chuckled at his joke. The funny
part was he didn't even like alcohol. He drank because that was what people did
when they felt like battered shit.

            That
thought made his mind wander. He imagined himself having a conversation with
his mind.

            “Why can't
I mope the way I want to?"

            “Because
that's not how it's done. You're supposed to show obvious depressive symptoms,
drink yourself into a hole, and be an unfeeling asshole to everyone who
bothered to learn your name."

            “But why?"

            “It's the
only way people will believe you."

            “Again,
why? Why do I care if people believe me? Since when do I need validation to
feel lower than dirt? Am I supposed to get a permission slip, too?"

            “Hey, buddy,
you're preaching to the choir. I'm just telling you how it is?"

            With that,
he downed the rest of the beer in two long gulps then crushed the can in his
fist and tossed it over his shoulder. He knew he would pay for that later when
the alcohol was absorbed into his system, but so what? He would rot his way,
how he wanted, and forget what other people thought.

            Starting
tomorrow, he would poor out the beer. It tasted like dirt, and he hated the
resulting hangover anyway. If other people wanted to drink it, that was their
business. Next, he would start showering again and wearing clean clothes. On a
few occasions he caught of a whiff of his stench and didn't care for it much. Why
submit to olfactory torture when he was already feeling sorry for himself? Why
did he need to fit some pre-conceived notion of what he should feel and how he
should behave for feeling it? He had no one to impress besides some random
strangers who viewed his life from beyond a digital screen and, thinking about
it, didn't care what they thought of him.

            Carter
picked up the crumpled beer can and threw it in the trash bin. Then he deleted
the fake post of himself at his “new job".

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