I tried to tell my story through the eyes of secondary characters. The point of this was to allow the reader to get to know Allister, the main character by learning about how his closest friends experience him. He's a different person in his different relationships so it's up to the reader to infer both the story and the personality of the main character.
Allister's Escape
Dante:
I sat across from my friend. There really wasn’t much left to say at this point, at least from my side. Allister hadn’t said a word this entire meal. I wasn’t even sure if he’d changed the subject of his stare since we had sat down. I tried once again to see past the opaque glass of that ridiculous gasmask Allister wore so shamefully, but all I could see was a warped reflection of myself and the rest of the coffee shop that slowly and rhythmically floated up and down to the beat of the clicks coming from the filtration system. Fitting. If Allister had a clear view of what I and everyone else had sacrificed for him, he would’ve opened up by now. I could sense that Allister was distracted, I’ve known him for years. I knew that Allister was willing and capable of shutting off the world, but never like this. I ran his eyes up and down the sickening beige prosthetic skin of the gasmask. The worn and scratched metal canister hung off the stretched rubber like an afterthought. Allister’s disgusting attire only angered me, and the unwanted attention of children passing by taking long confused looks at the man dressed for a chemical weapons attack only made me uncomfortable. I thought I knew the cycle. He finds some “Meaning of Life” question and then blocks out the world until we pry enough to open him up and kill his naïve ideas of existentialism or what have you. He seemed to believe that by blocking out the world’s imperfections, he could find perfect a place. A place like scientists imagine when they talk about physics. A place without irregularities, friction, abnormalities, or anything else that could ruin his ideal experiments. I thought this was no different. I thought he knew that I was sick of it. I thought that after a few days this would all be over and he would go back into the ranting cynic that I knew and loved. That was the silver lining of his “perfection” frustration. He was hilarious when he wasn’t taking it seriously. That’s why I took one last look at that empty cup of Starbucks coffee he was so intently staring at and left. I should’ve stayed.
Sophia:
I understood the mask immediately. I remember back when he was showing up at my doorstep with brownies covered in rose petals. He knew that it wasn’t a very personal gift, but that was the point. Allister wanted to be everything. Perfect, if you will. He’d vary his adorable little gifts from the romantic to the suggestive. It was cute, but it was never something that meant anything to him. His gifts were always a way of showing that he was any man I wanted him to be, but never revealing who he actually was, if that makes sense. I tried to get him to open up by sharing my stories with him, but that only led to more questions from his side, he’d interrogate me. I’d get caught up in the story telling and his insightful responses and completely forget that I wanted to learn more about him. Allister would do this as a defense mechanism. He never wanted to talk about himself. This was the case again. The gasmask was a brown paper bag over his head. Nothing I said could draw his attention away from that Starbucks cup. He was staring intently at the siren on the logo. I could tell by his posture that he was studying it and looking over every detail in the same way he’d discuss the stories I told him about my life that he hid behind so dearly. My stories and his wit were what protected his imperfections from me. After I was sure that he hadn’t taken notice of me as I sat there next to him during his lunch break, I began to tell him stories from my youth, something he could never resist commenting on. But nothing changed, he just sat there and swayed the tiniest bit as a breeze ruffled his tattered hoody that slumped over his shoulders. He adjusted himself only after the leaning interfered with his intense focus on the cup. After a few minutes of trying to reach out to him with no avail, I found that he had hurt my feelings. I thought that the time he got to spend with me was something he valued, certainly more than studying a stupid cup. I choked back the tears and told him that whatever he was trying this time wasn’t working, then I left and listened for the creaking of the bench, a telltale sign that he had taken notice of my absence. It never came. I should’ve stayed.