MONOCHROME FRAME
A fast-paced psychological profile of a businessman's feeling of guilt
Haoran Deng grew uneasy, despite the absence of anything that would have given rise to his fears. He stood before a wall-sized window with his hands clasped behind his back, absorbing the tableau of daily life. It was the picture of economic perfection: the busy streets, chugging highways, and regular flights passing in and out of a skyline full of cranes. Yet something was off, tainting his paragon of prestige. Some invasive spirit leeched off his mind. He couldn’t explain it, but it threw him off balance. Straightening his posture, he muttered angrily under his breath, his lips undulating with questions on what had turned his world upside down, leaving him helpless against an unseeable enemy. His only response lay in the countless twitches rippling across his face.
As CEO of an electronics distributor, he was on top of his game. His company held a practical monopoly over the industry, that he was too big to fail. Was it? It could have been mental, a symptom of sleeplessness, dietary misstep, or some virus. But even those couldn’t explain the dreadful uncertainties welling up inside. Something threatened him on a personal level, that a chunk of his life would be invariably compromised. All he could do was stare out the window, into the monochrome city, unblinking, as if under a spell.
Outside, a film of gray washed over the scene. Not a patch of blue grazed the sky. The smog was thick and saturnine, a dismal tone from contaminants and the coming winter months. If Haoran distinguished any semblance of color, it was the pall of sepia and sickly yellow that seeped through the balmy mists, clashing with the hustle and bustle underneath.
A gentle ring chimed through the office, its long echo revealing the height of the ceiling. He barked out a command. The computer listed his emails. Most warned of trade blocks, supply chain shortages, and imminent war. Alliances changed. Leaders bribed. One nation bullied others. Dialogue turned hot. A few bombs dropped. His CFO even warned of calumny against his company. Surely, stocks would plummet.
Why all these things at once? It taxed his soul, presuming blowback had already hit. He huffed. Had he any less patience, he would have picked up the closest object and hurled it at the wall. He needed assurance, and asked the computer to recite his stocks. They reflected his fears.
Panic set in like a scare of demons swarming the room. His chest pounded; he clutched it. At first, he thought it was a cardiac arrest. The emergency medic was only a call away, but he refrained, keeping his affliction to himself. Weakened, he fell to his knees and crawled on the floor, dragging his legs that befit a lamed beast. He might have gone crazy. It was an irrational risk—a death wish for the age he was at.
A sudden impact snapped him from his trance. He butted against the window. Wincing in pain, he craned his neck and was stricken with shock. Like a wraith from out of the depths of the night, a wood owl stood face-to-face with him, one of an unusually dark complexion, as if covered in soot, matching the monochrome pall outside.
But a wood owl? Here, in the city, perched atop a window one hundred and thirteen floors above the crowded streets? When looking up, he reeled back in greater horror. The entire window was now abrim with owls, including the last few stragglers fluttering up to the sill. The transom was solidly packed, plumed creatures beaming at him like the scope of a gun. A chill hit him. The room became cold, and he felt it penetrate into his bones.
A din of whispers sighed through his ears. He didn’t hear them aloud, but they came from within. Though, he couldn’t understand a word of it. The owls’ speech or a foreign language? The enemy could have dispatched a flock of robot spies across the ocean, scrambling the minds of his compatriots. Or so he imagined. Rather, something deeper, more wicked had transcended his day-to-day problems and seized his conscience, his will, and his hopes.
One of them pecked at the glass. To Haoran’s ears, it sounded like a blunt tap, but it thundered into his mind, piercing him all over. The tapping continued. He shut his eyes and shook his head, avoiding the stabbing glare and denying the imprecation the creatures levied onto him.
He slunk into a cringe. Like a shy animal, he crept back from the window. When far enough away, he collected his wits and gingerly rose to his feet, still in retreat, step by step. With a butt and a scrape, he jolted and whipped around. It was his desk. He stared at it, studied it, grounding his life’s work into it, a symbol that he slaved behind for forty years, yielding success, unblemished by tumult, tribulation, and failure. His work was his anchorage, a sole island in the midst of a roiling sea.
But that came under threat.
Bracing himself, he clenched his teeth and turned back to the window. The owls remained, sagely staring him down as the inner voices showered him in that mortiferous cryptic language.
Without averting his gaze, he commanded surveillance to record the external footage.
When he turned back to look at the screen, he tensed and crumpled to the floor, covering his face. Images flashed through him at once. They were violent, overbearing, beating deep into his brain. Visions flashed: the gravy train drying, his company folding, his wealth evaporating…
The whispers turned to chatter. His confidence withered away with every act of protest. Demons! Begone! But they refused to listen. Trouble abounded. Tensions spiked. The world shook. The owls wildly fluttered around the window, matching his inner havoc. Something terrible loomed. Fear…panic…hate…murder…
Shouting to rouse himself out of his stupor, he faced the owls, his final act of defiance, then recoiled in abyssal horror at the sudden flash from out the window. He threw himself down on the floor, covering his eyes as tight as a vice. A massive boom rocked the building. His ears rang, drowning out all sound. Lifting his hands, he witnessed a bright plume rise above the skyline, pummeling everything in its path until crashing through the window.
The world turned black.
A thrum. He recognized the whine of the heating unit. How? He refused to lift his head, afraid of the carnage that he might see, or his body strewn and mutilated in the wreckage. But it was too much to bear, and the challenge to overcome his sentiment grew all the more stronger. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. To his surprise, the window remained intact. So did the building in which he resided, including the sprawling monochrome horizon beyond the ocean of cranes and hi-rises. His hearing returned; the ringing had gone. The trembling across his body attenuated, and he lifted his hand, watching as he turned it in every direction. Stability returned. It was only a dream.
He swallowed, expiring in relief. Someone…something projected this nightmare into him. Was it any one person, the enemy perhaps, who employed weaponized tactics to rupture his character?
Perhaps he was overthinking.
He scorned himself for hitting a wall, denying the obvious. Now he knew what it was. Uncertainty. His work defined his life, from which everything else had hinged. If that faltered, so would the rest, including his life.
Curious, he shouted an order. The computer replayed the external footage. To his utter bemusement, only the sallow gloom shrouded over the bustling city.
Composure returned, including his strength. His angst sublimated. Even the tones outside had brightened. The milky sun was a welcoming change. Slowly regaining his faculties, he smoothed out his coat, straightened his tie, coiffed the part in his hair, and with increasing confidence, stood up straight, and faced the window with the broadest of smiles, seeing the world in a different light, less pale, more vibrant.
It seemed like retribution. He questioned the cost of success: contracts made, business dealings, national loyalty, underpaid workers, ecological impacts… But how accountable was he? His faults veered little from anyone else in his shoes, and they paled to his contributions, strengthening and enrichening the greater society, that he became too hard on himself, straddled with guilt for pushing the limit. But now he was at peace.
Barking one final command, he called his wife. It was the first time while at work. She answered. As soon as he heard her voice, a weight fell off his shoulders. He felt strong, assured, and a surge of warmth filled his chest with every loving word she uttered. He breathed easy. All was well at home. Then his lips suddenly straightened. His chest iced over once again. His eyes widened. He heard her call his name, but her pleads remained unanswered. A flock of owls had soared into the frame of his window, wheeled into a furious skein, then perched, staring right into his eyes. The newsfeed spoke of war.
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