The Sloth's Performance

The Sloth’s Performance

    His kitchen was trashed with half eaten leaves, scurrying red ants, peels, algae, ticks, and bottles over broken bottles of Forest Fine Liquor.  In the corner was his bulky green coat; a secret hideout for the critters that clung to him as he made his way from tree to tree in search of food. He sighed and glanced over to the liquor stained furniture: a small chair carved out of the nearby tree, a molding table with dirty plates, and the lone bug infested couch that he was occupying.  In years past he imagined soft leather and cushions, a few guests to chew the fat with, and maybe a light or two so that when night came he could sit down and read his next screenplay or music sheet.
    “Where had all those big city dreams gone”, he often questioned himself surfing through the channels of what might have been “how did it end up like this?”  He was a resident of the forest too and owned his own residential tree house. He had dreams, talent, aspirations, and he could even sing if given the chance.  Yet on the big day oh so many years ago when he put on his fancy green coat and headed to the theatre to apply for his first role, he wasn’t even given a second look or thank you.  They just waved him bye to allow the next creature to come on stage.  The irony was, the actor they did pick got poor reviews. He couldn’t dance, sing, or even act.  If the sloth was picked, the play would‘ve been a smashing hit; he would travel the world entertaining young and old alike.  Yet, the play was cancelled after the first showing. 
    Yes, the sloth had faced discrimination his whole life.  When your as slow as a sloth people assume your just lazy, they do not realize that a quarter of a mile leaves you breathless and it was never his fault.  He always exercised the best he could, trying to stay in shape, to keep healthy enough to make something at life; to tell his non-existent grandchildren how their Pappy could act any play without fault,, even if it required vast amounts of movement.  He wanted the world to look up to forgotten but valuable creatures sloths were instead of being another segment on Animal Planet for the humans to flip through on a boring rainy day.  
    A lone tear shed from his eye but he wiped it away, avoiding his long claws and brought the silver bottle up to his lips again.  He was already considerably drunk but this last swag knocked him to the floor.  Standing seemed impossible so he laid there face down.  Why should it matter how he portrayed himself now?  No one even knew of his existence.  To them, it was just an old warn-down tree house. Even the local kids had ghost stories about his place, how a poor phantom moaned in the darkest of the nights searching for his lost screen write.  If you dared venture up the vine ladder your skin would be ripped off to make parchment in which he could write the next play.  
    In the pit of his stomach, he felt the oozing churn of toxins and his room began to spin.  He crawled to the moldy old sink and hoisted himself up with his quivering claws, bending forward in case he couldn’t hold his liquor.  By his own will, or perhaps by the grace of god, it never surfaced.  It just slid up and down his throat before falling back into his gut.
    He staggered back to the infested couch but for some reason he pushed on, to the door and peered out.  The sky tonight was occupied by millions of stars that lit up the otherwise pitch-black canvas.  A single silver beam shined from the moon onto the branch by the door and he stepped out into it, into the spotlight it had created.
      He began to dance, slow and unsure at first but as he noted his movements and recalled the steps he became more confident.  Suddenly he wasn’t the poor sloth that had lost himself ten years ago but instead was a talented young man who held aspirations and took to the stage.  The dark night sky turned purple and neon blue whilst he twisted and turned on that lone branch.  He sang to the heavens as one of the many bright stars fell from the sky. It was a beautiful but melancholy sight that reflected in his eyes his own downfall.  Empathy glistened in his eyes as he sang to the star and of its decent.  His voice was marvelous.
    Stepping out to the very edge of the branch he lifted his diaphragm and spoke to the forest, “This is the Sloth’s performance, and it shall be my last.”  With that he bowed over the edge and plummeted from his tree, not reaching up to catch his fall.  The world spun no more than his room as he fell so he felt no regrets, no pain when his body smashed into the ground below breaking apart his skin and bones.   His fuzzy sight faded as well as the emotions of sadness and longing.  The folds of his mouth and eyes creased out the built up pain and he laid there, humble and at peace. 
    Beside his body stood a midnight stroller, a young female sloth forgotten too by the world.  She looked down at him as tears swelled up in her, bursting down onto his cold dead body.  She had never met this fellow before but she mourned nonetheless. Rubbing his smashed face and closing his peaceful eyes she bent down to whisper in his ear, “Bravo.”