Paper had no interest in mocking him. Neither did words. If Hector felt the universe’s judgmental gaze, the most absolute kind of condemnation there was…well then that was his problem. No one else cared. They had moved past that kind of behavior. Modern society was above baseless cruelty and casual disregard for the asomatous among them.
Right, like anyone really believed that. It took someone really thick to miss the writing on the wall. Every bigot who wanted to stand their ground had been slowly but surely pushed out. Mistreatment of spirits was on the decline. Soon, history texts would treat it as a blip in a perfect record of tolerance and harmony. The people who preceded them had made mistakes, but they didn’t know any better. It was only Hector who felt like they were missing something. If there was some sign of progress being achieved, it was completely opaque to him.
He didn’t know how to explain it. When someone asked why he wasn’t at the speeches and rallies, what could he say? A word about the reactionary whispers in the corners of the discourse would have him instantly dismissed as a conspiracy theorist. Those are just relics of a bygone era. They operate on the fringes, not in some omnipresent cabal. The bigots are powerless. Next item on the agenda towards utopia.
What could he do? He could go to work, try his hardest, hope that the world would turn out fine. He could hum along, pitch in with his content, and buy local. He was too tone-deaf to march to the best of a different drummer. Hector turned off his paper and hummed his way home.
Prompt: July 3 Wordle