Short Story of my Tragic Flaw

The space of this room is cold and hollow now; devoid of all sound, everything is filled with nothing. A light-skinned teenage boy with dark brown short hair and dark green eyes, wearing a pair of gunmetal-black glasses, blue jeans, and a gray zip-up hoodie, stands firmly in the center of his bedroom looking down at his teal carpet. He marvels a black ant, positioned still under the mass of his slender body. He kneels down to the ant and says in a low voice similar to a whisper, “Have you lost your way? You seem like you don’t fit here… like you have no place to be, to go to, you’re just trapped in the environment of a common man.” He pauses for a moment to think. Thinking in the deep underbelly of the mind, those thoughts that linger in a pool of dark emotions, loneliness and hatred amongst them. These feelings are a cult in protest against its host, chronically decaying the structure and well-being of a man intellectually.
“You are like me, little ant, not in physical manifest ways, but in the deep embodiment of fear within your current predicament. You can die here, all alone. There is no one here to care for you, none of your friends scurrying by your side.” He says this with a plain expression on his face which does not fit the building sensation in the upper part of his throat. He feels tears, yet cries none, he knows fear, and hides one. The ant flees from this borderless section of carpet that retained a conversation so insignificant, yet powerful in its own right. Now the boy ponders an idea, “I could stomp it now; rip its organs straight from its puny mortal part and make it truly suffer. But I’m not like Them, I don’t crush those that live under me in status, instead I feel their struggle.” He stands back up under the stagnant ceiling fan in the middle of his blue room, blues that echo in many different shades; blue is ubiquitous. Even his mind is blue.
The boy is sixteen years old and with much experience in schooling slips the homework out of his book bag and onto his messy bed. Before beginning, he performs a ritual of self-destruction in the world of task-doing, also known as procrastination. Procrastination is a time thief, the crime scene is your loose leaf. He starts spending his time in the store of nonsensical goods, searching the internet sea for fish to catch. Later he will notice these fish were only to be caught so they could be thrown back, therefore inciting the undoing of many potentially productive hours. After so many times, you’d think the fisherman would learn; sometimes he really does try to put the fishing pole away and leave the shore, but ends up throwing another bait worm out into the water. The boy checks his news homepage for updates, a social networking website for updates, a video-sharing site for updates in his subscriptions, the internet is an update on his expiration of usable time. The computer shreds his perception of reality to the confines of a screen until disturbed by surrounding creatures. He may have had “fun” for the moment, but soon the moment will have fun with him.
His recreation in the internet only lasts for an hour or so. What the boy really craves is to play the games sitting idle in his parents’ room, like he often does and even more so as the clock ticks with his task still unfinished, but those that have birthed him forbid such. He can’t play the games, because he is the game at play. This simple problem heeds a simple solution, but his room holds conflict between two precious things: the computer and the task. The ideological action in terms of delectation is to strip the hands safe from the paper and lay said appendages firmly onto the mouse and keyboard. Per contra, the wise hand slaps the face and grabs the writing instrument. The computer could be taken from the room, but procrastination will have its last laugh, anything in the room could be used for amusement in favor of work. In the procrastinator’s dream state, there is no wise hand, only the metacarpus of a man’s skeleton who thought death would never come for him.
Now he notices the elapsed time since his arrival home from public education, the stress is becoming a burden on the mind. He begins completing some trigonometry problems in his homework, a little bit at once, but then drifts into any form of entertainment within his proximity. Even the graphing calculator now slips itself into his grasp; he uses a pen tool in the system to draw. He always had a persona of artistic abilities, yet unearthed because of procrastination’s job to bury productive ideas. He electronically drew a beautiful left eye, possibly one from the face of his love interest. However, he knew he didn’t try hard enough to interact with other girls in his grade and finds it an agonizing pursuit at this point. A dripping globe of blood was drawn under the lower eyelid to emphasize this feeling. A lightning bolt was also added close to the right side of the eye. He recognized this symbol as a representation of dark feelings, as a rainy day might represent a gloomy time. He later decided to erase the portrayed blood to retain more of the eye’s perpetual beauty.
Both eyes now glare at the paper with little coverage in pencil marks, white like a sclera. This is when the moment has fun with him, when the body is overcome by the mind’s attacks. Frustration is now more accustomed since the store of nonsensical goods has closed; time must only be spent on the task now. Like a werewolf in an old horror film, the fleeting feelings of his past pleasures are now malevolently transformed into the desperate cries of wrath when the moon reigns the sky. Sleep is soon so the boy is determined to fail, he only saw sunshine and ignored the coming darkness. Initially, the task was a diminutive assignment, but time augments it into a massive burdening weight to withhold. He carried the weight of his daily task for as long as he could bear, until it had broken him. The leech of procrastination had finally sucked him dry. His limbs yanked nigh from their sockets like one may pluck the feathers of a turkey by hand.
He could not finish in this skewed timeframe; most other students would complete these meager assignments with ease. But he can’t be like Them, he must struggle; he must display disobedience to the rule of the empire built on procrastination. So there he lay, sprawled out on the bed that was once comfortable, but now it feels of jagged stone.
“But, it was just another homework assignment, why must it feel like Hell had appointed me the new role as Satan?” he thought, half-awake, with his eyelids seizing the pupil, “Am I to supervise the ever-burning skulls of mankind and not feel abhorrent in my own ways?” All day his body was jerked back and forth under the whim of the procrastinator’s puppet master. He knew now that he had been a toy living on a fake planet, his shadowed struggle left disregarded amongst the happy. The darkest of all toy stories.
Morning arises and the boy awakes for a new day of school, in his surprise a black ant sits within his view, while his head is still pressed against a pillow. The insect looked through him with its large compound eyes that bared a weak expression. It consistently kept falling over and slowly picking itself back up, as if the strength was escaping in its tiny muscles. It was nearly successful each time, but finally the ant couldn’t arise after it had fallen. It shook it’s legs sporadically with no avail and flailed its head in some desperate attempt to save itself, until it inevitably remained motionless.
“Did you do the homework, Chris?” his teacher asked after taking a quick glance at his cleared desk. Shrugging at the thought of an earnest reply, he responded, “I forgot.”