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The Coffee House

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Everyone who knew Stephen held the same presupposition: that he was a nice fellow. Of course, this is understandable as he had certainly attained his innocence through years of the daily grind. He found the clothes, the family, the house, the friends, and plenty more upon the passing of time. That’s all that remained for Stephen: time, perseverance, and sustenance.

He had remade himself; he did the right thing, but was it for the wrong reason? As Stephen lounged in his normal position at the normal cafe that he normally visited, he pondered his life; he remembered the good, the bad, and the drastic changes that unfolded. Unlike you or I, he didn’t envision it quite that way, though. Glancing upon the swiveling drops which gracefully caressed the plate-glass windows across the antique wooden surface from himself, Stephen didn’t regret anything. In fact, he missed the old days; he missed the times...

For with the insecurity, came the adventure. From the loneliness, arose independence. Yet, the opposing held equal truth. What was truth though, anyway? Truth embodied solidity, strength, efficiency, and practicality; however, that happened to be precisely what Stephen feared most.

Efficiency was a chasm.

Originally, with goals of productivity, those who pioneered it, attempted to revolutionize the world with prosperity, but their cause evaporated and scattered just as that which glistened in front of him. With the advent of mechanization, greed blossomed. Those whose effort once held an ethereal nature, were corrupted. The sickness spread slowly at first, while the rest remained asleep, but when they awoke it was rampant. In a way, firefighters turned to arsonists, and the corruption furiously blazed below an expectant populous. With this revelation, brutes rose to power. They sought control; they sought domination.

What they found was an environment suitable for such travesty. Thus, the world was shrouded in darkness, an eternal storm. Stephen felt guilty; he felt responsible. You see, responsibility has a way of returning to those who attempt to evade it. This is because it has never left them. It simply modifies its appearance, masquerading as a worn ember when it is in fact a roaring inferno.

As he finished his drink, he stood, still deep in thought, and glared at the window. It was filthy. Within an instant, he spun, and with an empty, psychotic gaze, seized the positively endearing waitress who had just taken his tip, stabbing her 17 times in the chest.

The injuries she sustained rendered her immobile, paralyzed, and unable to fulfill the life she, a predominantly normal individual deserved. Everyone who knew Stephen held the same presupposition: that he was a nice fellow. Of course, this is understandable as he had certainly attained his innocence through years of the daily grind. He found the clothes, the family, the house, the friends, and plenty more upon the passing of time.

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