He was capable of stewing in his own filth for days at a time. If one were to occupy a “fly on the wall” perspective, they would surely be both disgusted and in disbelief. He could sit and sit, and stare and stare. Whatever media he had playing on his desktop computer (the mark of a man who was of a certain age) was beside the point. It was simply there to be on. To further assist in making him believe he wasn’t totally alone in the world, and that few, if any, would care all that much if he were to disappear (usually a polite euphemism for die).

If you had asked him how he managed to let his life get to such a bleak point, he would have first tried to deny it. After enough needling, he might finally admit, “Okay, sure. I’m totally alone in the world.” And then he would claim that it was through no fault of his own. That, in fact, his pathetic state of existence could all be traced back to his “bitch” ex-wife. A woman who, per his account, he “supported” for most of their marriage while she “sat on her ass” (much the same way as he was doing now) “merely” raising their children: a girl named Lauren and a boy named Tyson. Of course, he left out the part—indeed, couldn’t see the part—where he treated her like shit every day. Not just in the undercuttingly hostile act of taking everything she did for granted, but through his constant, unremitting verbal abuse, all of which was rooted in the firm misogyny embedded in his culture. A background best left to the imagination of the reader as there are many potential cultures that characterization could embody. So why not leave it up to whatever prejudiced projections might arise rather than stating his true…heritage.

The point is, when one is subjected to the kind of toxic environment created by this man over a long enough period, either one of two things happens: the woman in question decides that it is her immutable fate (to endure the daily venom from a lesser man) or she decides to jettison the dead weight she had been foolish enough to take on in the first place. His ex-wife chose the latter. She chose her freedom. She also chose her children’s freedom. And for that, this man begrudged her. Took it upon himself to forever condemn and disparage her to anyone and everyone who would listen—whether they even knew his ex-wife or not.

Their schism had happened over twenty years ago now, and here he still was, stewing (literally) and festering over what had become ancient history. And yet, as he so loved to remind his students, “What’s past is always present.” The students forced to take history with him would stare back blankly, immune to whatever supposedly “profound” wisdom he was trying to impart. Like most people he encountered, they simply wanted to get the fuck away from him as soon as possible. As soon as they were no longer required to be around him.

And yet, despite how glaringly obvious it was that he made everyone he encountered uncomfortable, this man still couldn’t seem to put two and two together that, as Taylor said, “It’s me, hi/I’m the problem, it’s me.” Instead, it was the exact opposite in terms of placing all the blame for his present state of isolation on everyone else—especially women. And especially his ex-wife. The new “potential” significant others in his life could always hear alarm bells go off when this man would proceed to ramble on and on about what an “evil bitch” his ex-wife was. A “stupid whore” who had stolen “his” children away from him. As if they didn’t have any say in the matter. As if they couldn’t demand to see him. As if they didn’t still stay away from him even after they turned eighteen. But this man, like so many men, was extremely deft in the skill of denial. In the art of making sure he never saw just how much he was the one to blame. Most certainly for his current incel status. And, obviously, he thought he was too much of a “catch” to need to pay for sex, which would have at least taken some of the edge off his already unpleasant nature. A nature that any woman with half a brain could spot from a mile away and promptly run in the other direction.

So here he was, in a quintessential depression coma that he would not concede to being in. Locked inside the “studio” apartment (read: hovel) he had rented in Madrid after abandoning his life in the U.S. to teach history at an IB school where English was the language of instruction. It wouldn’t have been so embarrassing if he didn’t also happen to be sharing the space with a lodger who had actually agreed to rent out a literal corner of the space, where a partition was put up for privacy. The lodger slept on a small mattress on the floor, and was scarcely ever there. But he was still there enough to know that this man never went anywhere except work. He was a mid-life loser. It was that cut and dried. And it scared the lodger. He hoped he wasn’t seeing some grim glimpse of the future. But then, he knew he was nothing like this man. Particularly when it came to his dealings with women. Unlike this man, the lodger knew when he was being a creep, and corrected his behavior accordingly in order to secure his entrance into a woman’s boudoir (because, obviously, she wasn’t going to be able to, er, come into his).

As for this man, he instead told himself that women avoided him—only seemed averse to him—because they were actually trying to suppress their overpowering attraction. The truth was that he screamed “desperate freak.” And, after men enter their forties, it’s even harder to conceal that label if that’s what they truly are. This man truly was. So why shouldn’t he simply sit in his room and, for all intents and purposes, wait to die? He was marking the hours in increments of irrelevant programming, watching shows and movies that no longer had any place or pertinence in the modern world. And, as Susan Sontag once said, “I don’t consider devotion to the past a form of snobbery. Just one of the more disastrous forms of unrequited love.” He watched such things because it brought him back to a time when men weren’t questioned. If they wanted something, they got it.

He yearned to return to that time, for, yes, he was old enough to have experienced it. This man didn’t quite get when everything turned so complicated and frustrating for his “kind” (a.k.a. misogynist pricks). He didn’t give much consideration as to the why. As in: why might women want to live in a world where they didn’t feel constantly violated and subjugated on every possible level? That was immaterial to him. He only understood that their “sudden need” to act like “outright bitches” had made his life so much harder (an ironic word choice considering his hard-ons were rarely released by anyone other than himself).

Even “back in the day,” when it should have been easier for a prat like him to get a girlfriend, it still wasn’t. “Landing” his ex-wife, therefore, had been something of a coup. Not just for his self-confidence, but his dick (though, weren’t those two things kind of one and the same?). He rued the day that she came to her senses. But, naturally, he would never acknowledge it that way. It was better for his ego, his pride to spin the tale about what a “cunt” she was. Never stopping to consider how fucking horrible and stifling it was to live with him. That much was made glaringly apparent by the fact that he could barely live with himself, looking at the state of his sad, sheen-of-filth existence. And, now that school was out for the summer, there was absolutely nothing and no one to distract him. Not even the occasional appearance of the lodger, who dipped out on a holiday with friends a few days ago.

It was just this man and his blue screen now. Just him and the thoughts of all the women who had wronged him and all the women who were missing out by not jumping at the chance to jump on his dick. And as he furiously stroked what no one else would, this man had a heart attack. He wouldn’t be found for two more months, when the lodger returned to unearth his decaying corpse, still posed in the jacking off position. It felt like a more minimal form of divine justice.