I woke up to the sound of my neighbor’s radio bleeding through the thin walls—a tinny voice droning about a heatwave gripping the city. Sweat glued my shirt to my back. The fan was broken again, just swirling the hot air like a lazy tornado. I rolled out of bed and stumbled over empty beer bottles, kicking one into the corner where it joined the others like defeated soldiers.
In the cluttered chaos of my one-room apartment, I spotted something new—or rather, something old that hadn’t caught my eye before. A battered, leather-bound book wedged between a stack of yellowed newspapers and a dead houseplant. I picked it up. The cover was worn, the title barely legible: “The Hero with a Thousand Faces.”
“Well, ain’t that grand,” I muttered, flipping it open. Pages stained with age and God knows what else. It smelled like dust and forgotten dreams.
I sat by the cracked window, letting the distant sirens and honking horns be my soundtrack. The book talked about heroes and journeys, myths and archetypes. Some guy named Campbell piecing together the universal story, the monomyth. The idea that we’re all on some grand adventure, playing out roles written long before we were born.
I lit a cigarette, the smoke curling up like a question mark. Heroes. Journeys. In this city? Most people are just trying to make rent and not get knifed on their way home.
But I kept reading. There was something hypnotic about it, like a tune you can’t shake. The Call to Adventure, he called it. A moment that yanks you out of your miserable comfort and throws you into the abyss.
I looked around. The peeling wallpaper, the flickering light bulb, the sink piled high with dishes. If there was a call here, it must’ve gotten lost in the mail.
Still, the idea gnawed at me. Maybe I’d missed my call. Maybe it came when I wasn’t paying attention, too drunk or too cynical to notice. I thought about the times when things could’ve been different—the job I didn’t take, the woman I let slip away, the novel I never finished.
Hell, maybe this was my Abyss, and I was too deep in it to see the way out.
I decided to step outside, see if adventure was waiting on the stoop like a stray cat. The sun was unforgiving, turning the pavement into a griddle. I walked aimlessly, past graffiti-scarred walls and trash bins overflowing with the city’s discarded hopes.
A man on the corner was preaching about the end times, his eyes wild and desperate. “Repent! The hour is near!”
“Already feels like hell,” I said as I passed him.
In a dingy bar that smelled of stale beer and resignation, I ordered a drink. The bartender was a woman with tired eyes and a tattoo peeking out from under her sleeve. We didn’t exchange pleasantries. In places like this, silence is the native tongue.
A couple of stools over, a guy was hunched over, mumbling to himself. He looked up, catching my eye. “You ever feel like you’re meant for something more?” he asked.
“More what?” I replied.
“Just… more. Like there’s a big story out there, and we’re missing it.”
I took a sip of my drink. “Stories are for people who can afford the luxury.”
He laughed bitterly. “Maybe you’re right.”
But his words stuck with me. Maybe the city was full of people who’d missed their call, who were stuck in the Ordinary World while the heroes were off slaying dragons and winning wars.
I left the bar and kept walking. The sun had dipped below the skyline, the city trading its oppressive heat for a cloak of shadows. Neon signs flickered to life, advertising sins of the flesh and cheap thrills.
At an alleyway, I heard a commotion. Two figures struggling—a mugging, maybe worse. I hesitated. This wasn’t my business. But Campbell’s words echoed: the hero faces trials, confronts evil.
“Ah, hell,” I muttered, and stepped into the alley. “Hey! Knock it off!”
They both turned. One took off running, the other slumped to the ground. I approached cautiously. It was a kid, no more than sixteen, clutching his side.
“You okay?” I asked.
He looked up, eyes wide with fear. “Think so.”
I helped him to his feet. “You gotta be more careful.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled, before darting away like a frightened animal.
I stood there alone, the adrenaline fading. Was that my heroic deed for the day? Didn’t feel like much. No medals would be awarded, no songs sung.
Back on the street, the city continued its relentless pulse. I felt more disconnected than ever, a ghost drifting through the land of the living.
I found myself at the pier, the smell of salt and diesel thick in the air. Ships creaked against their moorings, bound for destinations unknown. Maybe I could get on one of them, sail away and start fresh. But that was a young man’s fantasy, and I was too old to believe in clean slates.I sat on a bench overlooking the water. The book was still tucked under my arm. I pulled it out and flipped to a random page.
“The hero returns home transformed, bearing the boon to heal the world.”
I laughed out loud, startling a couple walking by. “Heal the world? Can’t even heal myself.”
I thought about the writer of this book, dissecting myths and legends, finding patterns where others saw chaos. Maybe he was onto something. Or maybe he was just trying to make sense of a senseless world.
The moon hung low, casting a pale glow over the restless waves. I felt a strange kinship with the water—always moving, never arriving.
Eventually, I made my way back to my apartment. The city was quieter now, the sounds muffled as if under a thick blanket. I climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last.
Inside, nothing had changed. The same mess greeted me like an old friend. I collapsed onto the bed, the springs protesting under my weight.I stared at the ceiling, cracks forming constellations in the plaster. Maybe there was no grand adventure waiting for me. No call to arms, no dragon to slay. Maybe the hero’s journey was a fairy tale we told ourselves to sleep at night.
I picked up the book one last time and tossed it toward the corner. It landed with a dull thud among the bottles and newspapers.
“Guess I’ll remain the hero of my own tragedy,” I muttered.
As I closed my eyes, I felt neither sadness nor relief, just a numb acceptance. The city would keep spinning, the sun would rise again, and I’d wake up to the same tired routine.
In the end, maybe that’s all there is—no journey, no transformation. Just a series of days strung together until they run out.And perhaps, in some twisted way, that’s the real adventure.