His pencil tapped feverishly against the desk, which was only annoying to anyone that wasn’t actually producing such an obnoxious rhythm. He knew this, but he also knew that he was almost always alone. And through his confidence in this he went about his repetitive movements. His regular feelings of apathy weren’t present. This worked against his favor, for he was usually contempt with the numbness that he routinely experienced. His blood shot eyes flicked back and forth scaling the office quickly and quietly. In his right hand, was a small glass of scotch stained iced cubes and some watery booze floating around the sides of the glass. It took a half of a second to take full inventory of the room. For the past eight years his office looked the same. Certain changes had been made to pretty much every room except the office, the room that he spent the most time in; the room that deep down inside he really hated. The last two of the eight years he had spent in his house consisted of moving around, seemingly without a purpose. He had come up with no literary works worth even mentioning. The seriously apparent feeling that he got from every work that he came up with within those last two years was pure embarrassment.
A long time before he moved into his current home in Collins Crossing he had come into some money off a short novella he had begun writing in October and finished that December (there was no dead-line on that one, so it took longer than usual for the small amount of pages to leave Steven’s cramped dusty office). While self publishing two other stories, but that was the story that really put him on the map, the one that made him known, even if only in his small town. Divided into five small sections, the town he lived in was indeed small. Be believed his house stuck out like a sore thumb. While being in the wealthiest of the five sections, his house was obviously the largest of all. And also very much secluded from the rest of the homes, on purpose of course. With his pencil to his lip, his eyes flicked left to the tin trash can which contained packet of his last work. Its sides were bent and its nameless cover was completely blank except a small-italicized message on the bottom that read “for Julie.”
That was the one work that really radiated embarrassment. That was the one that he hated so much that he couldn’t even testify of its existence without the vein in his forehead popping out, and his body temperature rising. What started as a simple scribble on a napkin, turned out to be a ninety-seven page literary confession. Often times, the paranoia was too much for his mind to handle, though he lived alone, and no one would ever go through much less read his garbage he felt he had no choice but to burn the manuscript. It was simply confessions of a man who had such undeniable talent once, and confessions of a man who hated love so much that he might have killed that too. Whether he was going to admit it to himself or not he was the classic hopeless romantic. And in this trance of character he allowed her to become the sole inspiration for each and every decent idea he ever imagined. He once wrote, “Love is almost always perceived as the most powerful emotion that humans are capable of producing.” Followed by the sentence “Love is not hopeful, love is simply strong.” And it was, but for Steven Sheritson it was strong in a way that he hated its power. For Steven, love was something he meant to completely avoid, but just couldn’t stay away from. It was important; it was beautiful, but also, in his ever so typical instance, lethal.
In a quick motion he threw his pencil down to the paper desk calendar, he thrust his chair back smacking it against the wall behind him, causing some plaster to fall off the ceiling and crumble on the seat of the chair that Steven seemed to occupy so much that he had constructed a permanent print. He often considered that there was no way that a chair that old and that broken in could be doing anything good for his back. Thinking that way also made him feel older. He sighed. It wasn’t exactly a normal day, but what was different? How rhetorical.
As he stood up, his head felt foggy, and his vision impaired. He knew this feeling; he may have even liked it. He gently picked up the manuscript (he barely ever did anything gently,) and carried it into the kitchen. Walking through the narrowed hallway he bumped into the wall as the door frame of the kitchen seemed closer than it actually was. But he just bounced off and continued on his way. As his bare feet touched the tile floor, a shockwave of coolness streamed through his body, but he could always fix that with yet another glass of scotch. He placed the manuscript down on the counter, its bent sides curled up revealing a coffee stain next to the sink that Steven had neglected for days. He stumbled to the liquor cabinet and pulled out the unlabeled bottle and filled up his glass a little higher, but just below the point of over flowing. He discarded the use of ice cubes; he could do without at this point. Remembering the small book of matches in the junk drawer by the kitchen sink, he shuffled over and snatched them out. Pulling out a tall breakfast bar chair he looked to the matches, then to the pages. Was he really capable of contemplating this decision in his condition? Well if he could drive intoxicated, why couldn’t he burn this manuscript? After all, he did hate it…didn’t he?
“Mmhmhmhmmm….”
He grunted as he took a sip from the glass. He could remember when he couldn’t drink a half a bottle in a night without forcing it. But he also couldn’t decide whether or not he liked those flash backs, or if they signified a time which he perhaps remembers a little too much about.
With his finger and his thumb he flipped through the packet quickly, as if he expected one of those moving picture cartoons cleverly placed at the bottom where the page numbers were supposed to be. He giggled; a little toony man waving his arms and smiling. But of course there were no cartoons, or page numbers for that matter. Except the last page, in the bottom right corner there was a number ninety-seven. This is how he knew he was completely correct. He swore to himself that everything was in order, how couldn’t it be? It was a product of his own self, and he thrived on the fact that maybe he’s “still got it.” And typically liked to stay away from the reality of his washed up wanna-be attitude, and the drunken circles that formed under his eyes about twelve months back. That’s a year, he thought. Wow, a whole year. He pressed hardly on the cover and moved his index finger to the box of matches. He felt the side that was specially designed for the striking of such matches and thought how terribly convenient, it’s almost like a two in one, much like the pull-out couch. He laughed to himself and felt somewhat crazy, but of course the thought was brushed out of his mind in a matter of seconds. He thrust the match against the side of the matchbook and in a quick second it sparked and became a flame. The smell of sulfur dioxide reached his nose just above the papers. The closer he held the match to the manuscript, the farther it seemed to be. He tried to burn it, really it was an honest effort. But as the seconds passed he noticed the flame burning closer and closer to the tips of his calloused fingers. The skin under his fingernails became sensitive to the heat and he dropped the match into the sink. What to do? He rested his arm against the counter and starred at it. He reached back into the junk drawer to the side of the stove to put the matches away. When he opened it, a shiny red ribbon gleamed in the light that radiated off the lamp above the aluminum sink. There was a long stripe of gold that streamed down the middle of the ribbon, and it was a bit frayed at it’s ends. He grabbed one end of the ribbon and pulled it away from the matchbox. He struck yet another match and burned the edges on both sides to keep them fully intact. Proceeding back over the stack of papers he looked at it with more hatred than he had before. Remembering what was contained in its pathetic pages tortured his mind, and of course, the fact that up until that point his confessions were literally indestructible. His memories could withstand his life better than he could. He laid the ribbon flat on the counter top and put the manuscript over it. Raising the ribbons he pressed them together with his finger tips, crisscrossed the pieces and pulled them tight. In an authentic attempt, he slid the knot the right side of the front cover. He made a bow and pulled it tight again. The pieces dangled. How could something look so beautiful on the outside, and be contained with nothing but tertiary? The worst love story ever written seemed indisposable. Again he starred at it. He knew full well the reason why he couldn’t burn it. He wanted to let go, he wanted to feel better, and he wished he could forget her. The honest truth was that he simply couldn’t. Not for good, not now. He needed to know that she existed somewhere. Somewhere on paper, an example of the sad foundation in which he built his now completely worthless life upon. He needed to recall the location of her story as quickly as he could pull up her image in his mind. It couldn’t be gone. She couldn’t be gone.
The night was dark, the moon shed no light upon his doorstep, as usual. With the alcohol providing him with its usual dose of increased inhibitions he stepped out of the house into the utter darkness. Still dragging his slippers across the driveway, he frayed the toes even more. Walking up the steps to the tool shed he opened the door. A four and a half foot shovel leaned up against the side of the opposite door. He snatched it from the cob webs. With the shovel in his left hand and the manuscript in his right, he pressed on toward the woods. The air was cool, technically it was still summer. The mosquitoes didn’t seem to ever know how early or late it was in the season, and regardless they flocked to Steven. The perspiration on his neck radiated the smell of stale alcohol. His numbness helped him to concentrate on his actions. In his opinion, this was the least drastic thing he had done all day. Kudos. Approaching the edge of the woods, the moon broke through the trees and showed itself. The leaves crunched beneath his slippers and the sound of late summer crickets filled his ears. Although, it was muffled and insignificant, it made the woods seem less hollow. Deeper and deeper he progressed into the woods and still he had no intention of stopping until he saw a suitable yielding point. He took a sharp left and halted at a large oak tree that looked extremely similar to every other tree in the woods, and seemingly identical in the early hours of the morning. Which simply added to the fact that he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference if it were two in the morning; or the noon time on the sunniest day of the year. After circling the spot for half a minute he thrust the sharp end of the shovel into the ground, causing the leaves to tear in half. Shovel full by shovel full he lifted the dirt from the ground and packed it into a loose pile to the left. All the while feeling as if he was constantly being watched, he often felt that way. Even in the security of his home, there was always a creek. And the sincere feeling that someone was studying his every move, everyone has felt that way at some point. Though, the consistency often filled him to the brim with utter anxiety. With the papers squeezed tightly under his arm, he kept digging. Two feet, three feet, four feet. Smoothing its wrinkles with his dirty palms, he made sure the pages were all lined perfectly. Its red and gold ribbon in place, and “for Julie,” slightly smudged but still in clear view. He extended his arm outward and dropped the manuscript flat into the bottom of the hole. Layer by layer he filled in the pit with it’s previously uplifted dirt. Sweat began to drip slowly off his forehead and his robe became annoyingly overheating. Turning the head of the shovel over, he gave the finished product two hard pats and kicked some leaves along its circumference. With his head turned down he proceeded home.
His eyes moved to the mirror on the kitchen wall that reflected into the living room and saw the clock above the couch. He turned to the living room to read, 2:57. Am that was. But the concept of time was about as important as the date. This happened to be September 18th. Though, he had no concept of time or date. He turned back to the mirror to discover the same old, same old, dark circles under his eyes.
“Just a result of…leaky capillaries?” he suggested.
And with that thought he left it alone, he never thought of himself as a terribly good looking man as it was. Was he going to further criticize himself? Probably. Was he going to do it this early in the morning? Thinking more and more based on his physical attributes he thought he reminded himself so much of Oliver Raymond from “High Season Sun.” There had been instances in which he had become consumed in a character enough to begin to be them. Much like an actor can consume himself in a role, usually followed by an Oscar nomination and superior recognition from all who are approved to publicize their views on such matters. And as time goes on the actor may resume sense of self, but deep down inside they must often wonder who they were. But, as far as the perspective of the character consumed author, what happens to him? Steven could answer that. As he knew from experience he began to write his own fate. Feeling as if he was never in control of anything, he felt at that point that no character in his stories moved or spoke without say-so. As he slept they remained frozen in time, usually frozen in conflict. This proved a useful tactic that often helped to plug the reality into his stories just in time for the unrealistic twist of fate to occur. Always possible, but always rather unbelievable.
He squinted in the mirror and brushed his hand from his forehead, down his face; and stroked his five o’clock shadow with the top of his four fingers. He was tired, but of course he woke up around 4:30 pm and the way he thought of it was that he hadn’t even been awake for twelve hours. He put the matches back in the drawer and proceeded upstairs to his bedroom. And as he walked through the house he was disgusted with the immaculateness of every room, every wall, ever table, chair, and floor was clean and clear of anything disruptive to its spotless nature. He took his robe straps and tied them loosely together.
The only money that he was currently pulling in was off a small inheritance from a wealthy relative that in truth Steven had forgotten existed for about fifteen years. His manager was getting so fed up with Steven’s halted career that he had organized books signings and put some of his earlier short stories into single thick books with creative titles that were derived from a common theme, in an effort to rebuild Sheritson’s popularity. He didn’t have another book signing for a month.
He declined the offer to speak to the local high school students, but still would appear at the book signing in the local library. He honestly didn’t want anyone stealing his success secrets. Not because he wanted them for himself, but simply because he screwed himself so badly that his success could be brought upon someone else who would use it more correctly, hell, maybe they would even be good looking; how he hated the idea of that. Plus, he hated kids.
“You’re set up in the back right corner Mr.…Sheritson,” Said the woman at the desk checking her paper to see if she pronounced his name correctly.
“…Thanks.”
Steven could also never refer to himself as a people person. He was never terribly good at psycho analyzing people on first encounter. Of course, he made up his mind the second he passed through the dark wood doors that he didn’t like this woman that spoke to him so passively. Perhaps she’s read some of my latest work! He thought, and then laughed so hard to himself that he almost choked on a sip of whiskey he drank from a solid colored coffee cup. How clever of him. That would explain her hostility.
Steven was zoning in and out every few minutes, with no complete thoughts passing through his mind. And these were the times in his life when he seemed to prove himself right. Things would never get any better; the only direction he saw his life going was straight, seeing as he didn’t exactly see anything get any worse. Although the path was straight, it was narrow. And his balance at this point wasn’t particularly good. He wished there would be something either really great or really horrible happen to him. He couldn’t admit to himself that it was because he wanted some attention and another part of him wanted something to live for, something to work toward. He had already found and lost his “niche” along with the love of his life…so, be it.
“Hey how’s it going,” said a business man carrying a burgundy leather brief case. When Steven realized that this man was speaking to him, he stood up and leaned a little to the right, then rested up against a book shelf as if he aimed to do it all along. The smirk on the man’s face indicated that he didn’t really care how it was going. “Fine, fine,” answered Sheritson. He stuck his hand out to the business man gesturing for a handshake. In response the man gave a plastic smile and shook his hand roughly. As Steven lowered himself back into his chair he noticed that the man was holding a paperback copy of “Questionable Intentions.” It was Steven’s most impressive work, according to the “New York Times.” He had never seen the book with that particular cover before, he had wished that they kept his original design choice, though, business was business.
“How can I help you sir?”
“I was just leaving the house this morning and I noticed this book wedged between the arm rest and cushion of my living room couch. It must have been my wife’s because it’s not mine, and I heard that you were coming to town, so I thought I would get it signed for her. I’m sure she had more of you’re novels. I just know that she would greatly appreciate an autograph; she was always very intrigued by creative writing. She doesn’t typically own a book if she isn’t a pretty big fan.” The man said with a smile that seemed almost as if it was meant to be completely terrifying. The wrinkles in his forehead pressed hardly together and he uncomfortably gritted his teeth in the ever so frightening grin. Possibly it seemed so scary because it looked completely unnatural. His head reminded Steven of a lawn that looked as if someone had made an honest attempt to grow a lush patch of grass, but instead ended up with sad looking blotches of dirt.
“I think I can help you out with that,”
Steven said with a smile even faker than his interpretation of the business man’s. He smiled a little bit when he read the fake location of his home on the back. Montana? Were people honestly supposed to believe that he lived out in the middle of nowhere? Sheritson thought that every single work was so close to real life, he changed names of places that sounded inconspicuously like their original titles. The same with people, he kept everyone’s same initials. How could he live all the way out there and still have material to put on paper. Jesus, he thought too much. He also laughed a little when he thought of the man saying “I heard you were coming to town,” yes the whole five minutes he drove was a real adventure. He was glad no one knew where he was, not even his agency. He had a P.O. Box at the post office in the next town over; he went out there every Thursday. He never thought too much about the past in the period of time in which she was gone, but in the months following her death, on those Thursdays he often ate at her favorite restaurant. With that thought, the accusations rapidly flooded into his train of thought. Though, he gave himself credit for admitting to his idealist tendencies.
“Thank you, I’ve got to run, hey. Business as usual, am I right?”
“I hear ya…nice to meet you Mr.…?”
“Oh, Jacobson, Huntington Jacobson.
Steven was completely flabbergasted that he met someone that was indeed as phony as himself. The man with the burgundy suitcase made him feel not so alone. He realized that no matter what he would always be alone, but at least he confirmed that he wasn’t the only one on his way to hell. Also, he took into account that anyone that begins or ends a sentence with the word “hey,” is a pretty interesting character. It was almost as if he was subconsciously attempting to shrink Sheritson’s head. Just in the sense that it seemed to Sheritson that he was giving him a false sense of security. Steven felt also, that by speaking that way, the man was constantly forgetting that they were the only people around for at least 300 feet. Why did he feel he had to constantly get Steven’s attention? As if Sheritson had the choice of whether or not he was going to answer him. But, perhaps Steven was all wrong. It wouldn’t very well be a surprise.
When he met someone new, he often thought of her. Though, he hadn’t really “met someone” in months. Sheritson only considered Huntington Jacobson an acquaintance because when Jacobson addressed him he actually answered back and inquired about certain things other than taxes and the leap year coming up. But there was no doubt anymore in his mind that he missed her so terribly. The common misconception he often faced with himself was that she ruined his life, though; it was simply the loss of her that disrupted his basic function in the real world. On that note, he came to terms with the fact that he was trying to blame someone for her death and wrongly accused her. He would gladly blame himself, but that accusation never seemed to hold up in his mind either. It was “doomed from the start,” a line he often calculated as a sum of his predictions when he would eventually attempt to convince himself that he was at fault for their tragic separation. In his mind she was flawless, it must have been him, she had so much more to loose. The sick hilarity of that fact was that he had no problem blaming anything else on himself. Hell, he could find a way to make the Boston Massacre his fault if only it meant that he could satisfy his mind. But her mysterious death was indeed a different story. While musing over the fact, he came to the conclusion that he hadn’t very well pushed her away, he hadn’t upset her, he hadn’t done a thing that could put her (being in the seemingly logical state of mind that she was consistently in) over the edge. In what he had left of a heart, he knew there was something that didn’t quite add up.
Every time she turned around he was right there to memorize her every step, her every move was mentally recorded. He often wondered what it would have been like if they had met when they were younger. Though he convinced himself that wondering, “what if” was ultimately an extremely dangerous idea. And also, how someone so pure and loving could further herself from her husband to be with someone as heartless and phony as himself. Though, he felt that she was the only person that he was ever completely honest with. It took him a long time to reveal his true self to her, but when he did he realized that he could finally be himself around her he began to question the stability of the paradise and peace of mind in which she provided him.
She had often commented that she had always felt that she was keeping him waiting. During the quiet nights, she would reveal exactly what was on her mind, at the exact instance that the thought would arrive in her head. She felt that he deserved to find someone that he could have a future with. The truth was, Steven would have waited a lifetime for her, if it only meant that at some point, at some time they could be together. It didn’t matter the cost, he would have done anything. Though, he wasn’t a man of many words, which was also the reason he often kept her guessing. She used to leave while he was still sleeping so that she wouldn’t have to look in his eyes, she didn’t want to hear his silent plea for her to stay. How could she hide it any longer? How could she sneak back into the house and onto the twin bed in the spare room on the far left corner of the house without being heard? She knew they knew, they knew she knew they knew. And still there was no communication within the family. He often woke up overly optimistic, he would run his fingers along the wrinkles she created in his bed sheets, the pillows smelled like her. He would his tired body into her side of the bed, and tangle himself in the blankets just wishing she were there. Often times, he could almost feel her; he could predict what she would say if only he had woken up to her instead of the silence of an empty house. And in this all too familiar flash back he could positively describe the scene. The large glass window stretched the width and half the length of the far side of the bedroom, giving perfect view to the trees. He would study the autumn view from behind the window. Also, it didn’t take him a very long time to decide that it was ugly. As opposed to the lush spring scene at which his window could stay uncovered. But during this season, the trees were bare; as the leaves fell he listened closely for the soft crunch he imagined he heard as they hit the ground. In reality he heard nothing. Though reality seemed more realistic when she was there, everything was better, safer, and more alive.
He wrote stories upon stories based on their love. They all seemed to have the same romantic theme, resulting in the ending that was just to the tangled disaster that led to their very own demise. He often found himself racking his brain for the easiest way to put their unique relationship into clear intelligible words. Constructing a literary piece from the raw emotion he felt was always a little bit easy. And by doing so he felt that he was taking the easy way out. His only confession seemed to be that he wrote what he knew. And for all those years, what he knew was pure, true, undeniable love. This coincidentally created his persona as a “romance novel icon.” Fans and critics loved him when he “wrote what he knew,” but only when it sold. And the cold hard truth presented itself after her death. His heart was filled with nothing but pure horror and hatred. As he kept writing what he knew, and still did what he did best; the media became disgruntled by his horrific ideas. No one in the English speaking language could seem fathom the idea of a person being angry enough to kill. At least not coming from him. It was simply out of character, of course, nobody likes inevitable change now do they? His fans, along with the rest of the world had turned their backs on Steven Sheritson. The bottom line seemed to be, that if there wasn’t a happy ending there simply wasn’t a story. In a world of people that constantly shielded themselves from harsh reality with happy television programs, novels, and overly optimistic views with underlying themes such as “love will always find a way” and “anything is possible.” They often seemed to clash with “Always question the stability of the human mind,” and “good thing’s never last.” And among the world, there was no place for a new found realist that he was. With the demise of his love resulting in the plummeting of his career, he never discarded the domino affect from any aspect of his life. Especially the aspects in which he felt he had no control over.
Though, these thoughts were typically left out of the evening activities, which mostly included excessive drinking, and the writing and crumpling of at least thirty pieces of perfectly good paper. Also, not being able to fall asleep without the thought of her absence driving him insane; resulted in simply drinking until he passed out. To Sheritson, it was a win, win. He didn’t have to think of her, but he still got to sleep as long as he wanted, most days. And on the other days he would spend the majority of the morning swearing out loud throughout the unforgiving walls of his home. Often the curse words would echo into the hollowest departments of the ceiling. And of course the rest of the days would be spent swearing, under his breath of course, but still in public, while possibly under the influence as well. He usually day dreamed of how hilarious it might be to be arrested for drunk in public. Anything that funny or exciting would at least give him the new material which he so desperately needed to produce anything. And often that lapsed into the idea of the foreclosure letter coming in the mail one day and having no family, and no one who loved him to take him in. He wasn’t really afraid of being homeless, since he knew that before he would ever live on the streets he would probably kill himself; as he thought about her absence the idea seemed more and more attractive everyday. The thought was fairly frequent, though he had full knowledge that money simply wasn’t an issue. He hoped that someday someone could maybe even make their own story about him, Lord knew he couldn’t; not without the massive guilt eventually eating him alive. In the end that’s all it seemed to be, the guilt.
A few more people stopped by to speak to Steven that day, but no one quite as interesting as Mr. Jacobson. The man from the post office in which he actually kept his P.O. Box stopped by, he only looked at him. He didn’t get so much as a “hey I know you,” or “how’s it goin’?” And even with Sheritson being the passive pessimist prick he was, had to admit that it bothered him somewhat that this “nice” man didn’t acknowledge him at all. Steven didn’t admit things often, and the truth was he was desperate for someone to talk to. Someone to notice him for anything, whether they complimented his tie or said it was “nice to see him again.” In order not to further himself into hopeless insanity he needed to be acknowledged for the things he did well. Even the little things, he wanted someone to let him know that he was worth living. That he wasn’t just wasted space. And for a comment so empty to be such a compliment, he decided he was pretty easy to please.
As he pulled into the drive way, he turned off the headlights. Just then he actually realized how dark it was. There was no moon that night, not even a beam of light to guide him to his doorway. He could walk from the car, up the steps, unlock the door and make it upstairs with his eyes closed if he had to. It was a religion. Or at least he did it religiously. A self help book once told him that people with precise schedules, when everything is timed, daily, and planned are less likely to be stressed. This in his “expert opinion” meant that they were less likely to go insane. Stress was what drove him to be the way he was. When he looked back to the way he used to be, there was one thing he was sure of and he could say with full security, and that was the fact that there was a time that he meant something to someone. And then he would find himself shaking his head because it was so distant that he couldn’t remember with full clarity what sort of a person he was all those seasons ago. When he met people, he often thought if only he could have met them two years prior. Oh how they would love him, they might even be able to be great friends. They may have noticed his intellectual charm and figurative way of putting words together into a sentence. With no intention of hypnotizing them with his collective speech patterns, his talent would take full affect over them. Perhaps they would admire him the way she had. But at this point, he felt selfish for breathing everyone else’s air. He felt sorry that people had to look at his face, he felt sorry that they had to waste their time waiting for him in line at the grocery store, or the post office, or even at a four way intersection. As cocky as he was, and as much as he hated almost everyone else in the entire world, he was still felt bad that they had to be around him. So why didn’t he just do it already? Why didn’t he just get it over with? Something inside was holding him back, whether it was his own cowardice ways, or that he actually felt his life may improve, as if possibly there could be more in store for him. Of course he never thought that deeply about it. He just physically endured each day as if there may be something that could happen or maybe not.
He turned off the car and opened the door, when the car light above him turned on he focused on the passenger side. In the middle of the seat was his manager’s new telephone number. He figured he should give him a call since they hadn’t spoken since the previous Christmas after his father died. Steven attended the wake and the funeral, he had the time and he cared enough about Bobby to be there for him. Steven always felt it strange to express compassion for people who died of old age. The way he saw it, they lived a fruitful life, their death was utterly pain free, and it was simply their time to go. Falling asleep and never waking up was on Sheraton’s top three favorite ways to die. He also thought it a little strange that he had a list, an actual list. It was somewhere, he wrote it down as he did everything. That’s not normal, he thought. Though, being a realist he found himself lacking the mental capacity to care how “crazy” some of the things he did seemed, since there was never anyone around to notice his quirky behavior, much less judge him based upon it.
He grabbed the note paper, and swung his legs out of the truck and on to the ground. Gently closing the door he heard the signifying click of security and continued to the front steps. He felt tired; his head ached from alcohol withdrawal, when he noticed this he thought perhaps he should get some help. Perhaps he was an alcoholic; perhaps this would affect the people around him. Then he laughed aloud to himself, just loud enough for the high ceilings to project the frightening sound throughout the living and dining rooms as he walked into the house. Once again everything was clean, untouched. The air was cold; the leather couches froze the tips of his fingers as he ran them across the arm rests. It looked to him like nobody lived there. And it was true nobody did, all he needed was his office and his master bedroom which of course had a bathroom included with the excellent view. He hardly ever ate, and the living room, guest room, porch, breezeway, dining room, second bedroom, second bathroom, and patio area were all completely useless wastes of space. Yet he paid to heat them all in the winter, and cool them in the summer, with the exception of the patio. Possibly he stopped caring, but he couldn’t admit that he missed the way he used to have to clean up after her. The way she would leave her shoes in the middle of the floor because she would rather be barefoot anyway. The way she would drop her coat anywhere she saw fit. If she felt it necessary, she would sleep on the floor. And the next morning leave a heap of blankets in a pile but usually not a pillow, she rarely used one. And if she really wanted to, she would take walks at midnight if the summer moon was warm enough, just to come back with a bouquet of flowers neatly bundled in one hand; only to throw them all over just to make everything beautiful. The house looked lived in, full of life, full of worth. And along with her earthly existence, that characteristic about the house disappeared. Her charisma often seeped into the minds of those around her, and if given enough time she would captivate them, in her own solemn way she could make them love her; no matter how long it took. Everyone had a story to tell, everyone deserved a chance. Quite possibly after people showed their true colors she would give herself the opportunity to either like or dislike the person. And more than always, she would simply embrace their flaws, and love them unconditionally.
He was thinking too much again, practically running to the kitchen he couldn’t ignore the increased feeling of hate he felt toward that house. Everywhere he looked there was a memory, in everything that stood so completely still there was a look, a laugh, a quote. He remembered everything. The liquor cabinet whipped open and he yanked the whiskey out without even looking. Vodka, scotch, whiskey, jinn, he didn’t give a rat’s you know what as long as it would cure his headache and ease his mind. Though he knew full well being the person he was, that consuming alcohol would only increase the intensity of the mood he was in. He asked for it, it was planned, he got some kind of sick excitement out of acting astonished by things he set up for himself. It could be referred to as planning his own surprise parties. He loved it, couldn’t get enough most of it most of the time. On the outside he was smiling, and putting on that this drink would relieve his stress and put him to bed. But on the inside he could feel a storm brewing. Thoughts of her running through the hayfields by his home brushed through his mind. Thoughts of her beating him in a barefoot race down the dirt road that led to a strip of private beach that ran along the river feeding that specific part of the Atlantic Ocean, were undoubtedly grounded into his memory. Her beautiful face smiling in the summer sunshine, spinning around in circles enjoying the simplest things that she was sure no one else could provide for her. In those times it was clear that her vulnerability wasn’t bred by codependency. She could do just fine on her own, but she loved him. And he often wondered why. As he mused over the thought, he was sure that he wrote some proposed answers to that very question, life wasn’t worth living if it wasn’t recorded. Precisely the reason he tried his best not to record every little thing he thought of now that she was gone. It wasn’t worth it, he couldn’t move on. Even if he could it would be a selfish thing to do, wouldn’t it? He held the glass above the counter top using his fingers with his palm above the top moving it around in circles causing the golden brown color to splash accordingly on the sides of the glass. His permanent frown was hurting his face, but he couldn’t stop. Sitting hunched over he took another sip from the glass and for the first time in years he felt that he might actually be sick. Running to the sink he threw his head inside and coughed loudly. When nothing came out, he slowly picked his head up. Saliva dripped from under his tongue, down the center of his bottom lip and strung out until it touched the bottom of the sink. Wiping his lip, he turned the facet on his other hand to wash the drool away. Turning around he looked to side cabinet too see a ribbon dangling on the right knob. He knew it was there, he saw it everyday, he just chose not to look at it. He could imagine running behind her trying to catch up while it hung loosely in her brown hair. Stumbling over, he grabbed the hair ribbon aggressively, but not hard enough to rip it off the knob. He managed to swing to cabinet door open a little bit. Still holding the ribbon, it helped keep his balance. He looked at it with a hardened expression, and as the memories flooded back, tears flooded his perception. Everything became even more blurry. Moving closer to the ribbon, he untightened his grip and unraveled the knot. Wrapping the ribbon around his hands, he fell to ground. Louder and louder he sobbed holding tightly on the ribbon, its tattered ends fell gracefully and hung towards the tiles of the floor. He couldn’t pull himself together; he could feel himself dying more and more while feeling more vitally alive than ever. What a horrible feeling, what a horrible realization it was to know that no matter how hard he tried, at least at the moment; there was no stopping the way he felt. Of course he knew there was no sense in dwelling on things he couldn’t change. Doesn’t everyone know that though? And in his opinion it had nothing to do with the fact that he couldn’t change it. It was still going to over power his life. Early on he decided that he would never let anyone get close to him again. It seemed tough in the beginning and eventually got progressively easier, until there was her.
Feeling his blood boil he made a fist with his right hand and forced it downward on to the kitchen floor. He quickly asked himself if he felt it, finding himself not exactly sure he punched the floor another time. Over and over again he smacked the tile floor until finally one of the brown and white squares cracked and broke in half. He turned his hand to the side; blood was coursing from small veins that were visible from the outside. It collected in his knuckles and smeared onto the floor quickly drying there. His head began to pound, the tears ran uncontrollably, and as he used the counter to help himself stand up, he punched the side of the counter over and over again. His tattered gray bathrobe hung on the corner of a small kitchen chair. He shuffled his feet across the floor, and reached out his right hand to grasp the collar. Attempting to grip it he felt that his fingers had already begun to swell, when he looked down he saw they were red. Searching his mind to find something he cared less about was useless. He snatched the collar and threw the robe over his clothes. Stumbling back over to the bottle, he hesitated to grab it, then went for it and swiped it off the counter. It hit the floor with a loud crash causing the dark concoction to seep into the cracks and seams of the floor. He screamed loudly and stomped yet again to the kitchen wall mirror that reflected into the living room. Redness surrounded his eyes and nose; his eyelashes glistened from the tears that were now dried to the middle of his cheeks. The more he studied his complexion the more and more he hated what he saw. He could deal with not enjoying his physical attributes, but he found himself staring long enough to see who he really was. His eyes burned through his outside appearance until he seemed to combust. Quickly his teeth gritted behind his closed lips, his right hand presently throbbing was thrown back and in one swift motion the glass was shattered. Pieces of his reflection shimmered in mid air smacking the floor and scattering among the whiskey now flowing in a slant toward a small area rug. Slivers of glass penetrated his hand and half way up his arm. Instantly his face hit the floor, the objects around him swirled downward. His mind went blank, his eyes went black. He lay motionless on the floor. The dim light over the kitchen sink reached only half his face. His body looked twisted and mangled, his left arm was wrapped around his body, and his left hand lay palm up next to the right. Streaks of blood ran diagonally down the wall where his exhausted body went limp and collapsed.
The next day Steven woke up tired, as always. He felt the left side of the bed as he daily performed. And as if it wasn’t regular enough, the feeling of cold cotton sheets increased the familiarity. He rolled over on to the right side and breathed into the pillow. As he took into account all the sights of his surroundings, his brain seemed to become overwhelmed. His eyes moved toward the light leaking out through the window shades to the left of his bed. This welcomed the feeling of a sharp object piercing through his temporal lobe, or at least where he imaged that would be. It seemed just like any other morning. He finally pulled his body up off the bed and tried to balance on his own. He had a basic build, maybe a little bigger than average. He wasn’t over weight, not muscular and toned like he used to be, but usually in decent shape. He shuffled over the closet and slid his feet into his slippers. He didn’t bother with the robe as he starred at it from across the room. Maybe he was just too lazy to retrieve it, he wasn’t exactly sure. He made his way down the stairs and looked into the living room; everything was perfect, untouched, he decided that people should rent his house for candle and kitchenware parties. Why not? There had to be some kind of significance to the number of items sold and the appearance of the home. As if anyone would ever actually do that, he thought. Walking around the small loop in the railing at the bottom of the staircase he looked halfway into the kitchen allowing the sunlight to reach his face. He took a slight left and resumed on his way to the coffee pot. As he extended his right arm he felt the blood rush to his fingers and they started to pulsate. He pulled it back toward him and held it close to his side. The events of the previous hours struck him almost instantly, he turned around. A smashed mirror covered in blood lay on the floor surrounded by thick pieces of glass soaked in Scottish whiskey. Most everything had dried to the floor, causing it to make a sticky ripping noise when he lifted his shoe off its practically adhesive surface. The streaks of blood were also dried to the wall. How will I ever get these darn stains out? He sighed and looked at the clock. It was twelve forty-five pm. He got a small glass of tap water and gulped it down. The taste it left in his mouth was disgusting; he had neglected to brush again last night. Neglected, he thought, or forgotten. Oh what did it matter at this point? His sluggish body made its way over to the telephone. He stood there a minute contemplating how he would make his phone call without the use of one of his hands. He wasn’t exactly his quick witted self at this hung-over and sleep deprived juncture in time. Using his left hand, he grabbed the phone off the hook and put it on his right shoulder, using that as a rest and pressed it up against his right ear for balance. Then he dialed his doctor’s office. One by one he used his pinky finger to drag the spin dial for each number. The effort seemed ridiculously tedious.
While standing there, his eyes were closing. He imagined himself going back to sleep. Of course in the fall, not with her by his side; but as he could recall there was also no knowledge of her death.
“Yes? Hello?”
“Hello, ma’am I would like to make an appointment with Doctor Kevin Everett please.”
“Of course sir, name please?”
“The name’s Sheritson, Steven Sheritson.”
“What would this appointment be for sir?”
“Um…my hand. I hurt my right hand. “
“Are you also aware that you are due for a yearly physical in two weeks? Would you like to have it done today? I can fit you in a 3:15 time slot; I promise you’ll be out of here by four.”
Steven liked this woman. The cheerfulness in her voice excited his mind. He wanted nothing less than to go to a god damn physical. But she was so convincing. He would have done anything she wanted. He took into account that she spoke to him as if she had no idea who he was (which she probably didn’t) but still had enough good spirit to care about him wasting time. Of course she was only doing her job, but Steven often misconstrued those types of situations to have deeper explanations. And also she spoke as if he was busy, in turn causing him to feel like he was.
“Hold on please…” turning his head to the side he touched the calendar on the refrigerator as if considering his plans for the day.
“Yes ma’am it seems that I actually do have some time that just opened up today. Thank you very much, three fifteen it is.”
“Very good sir, goodbye.”
Climbing into his pick up truck, he practically hurled himself into the front seat almost hitting his head on the roof. He grabbed the key tight with his fingers and put it in the ignition. Backing out of his driveway he was blinded by the weeping willow tree at the end right near the street. Its vines draped over the truck bed and back windshield until he backed further into the road. The thought of having to cut them was completely overwhelming. Something that would take all of maybe ten minutes with walking time included was unbearable to think about. As he placed his dominant hand on the steering wheel to make a reverse turn right, he began to try to grip his fingers between the rivets in the leather covering. Just as he clenched his fingers the pressure caused blood to surge toward his finger tips and acknowledgeable pain became undeniably present. He let out a breath of fast air sounding almost like a cough as he winced and cradled his right hand in his left.
