He gave himself nightmares.
He woke up and slid out.
His pillows on the floor.
Walked into the bathroom, punched the mirror.
Blood and broken glass.
His head hung low like plastic testicles on a truck axle.
The corners of a smile.
Television images flickering in his braincase. He hummed a familiar tune.
He checked his email.
He wrapped a paper towel around his knuckles, a vain attempt. It soon fell off.
He had woken later than usual. But he wasn't late. It was Saturday.
The house was empty.
Coffee.
He poured some raisin bran.
The computer on the table while he chewed nonchalantly. (He hated that word.)
The corners of a smile.
When he was done he took a shower and sang and hummed and marched and stomped and rinsed and washed.
Drying off but the blood was still coming from his hand.
Saturday.
He lay on the bed again, watching television.
He got irritated; he decided to write a letter.
His handwriting, neat. His style, perfect. His meaning, soon to be misconstrued.
It was addressed to no one and he didn't sign it. It read:
"I love, miss, and cherish you."
Then he scratched it out seventeen angry times and kind of angrily wrinkled the paper up a bit, and then with an escalating quantity of anger burnt the letter with a disposable lighter. He had done this a lot, and the lighter was empty after this time, so he angrily threw it away. The lighter was obviously upset, but was aware of its brevity.
The paper, however, was offended, and would have preferred a recycling process.
The ballpoint pen had no opinion on the matter.
The man, however, was very, very angry. That cannot be stressed enough.
He was always this way on Saturdays. Before he did anything fun he made himself hurt. Then there wasn't any time for fun so he just watched TV. Then that got boring so he would write stuff.
Like this.
He would write stuff like this.
May 23, 2010
May 2, 2010
Short Story: Routine
Cold.
He walked across the stage, to the microphone.
"I'd like to thank everyone for coming."
Later that night.
He unloaded the car, dragged in his bags. Sat on his bed. Jet lag. Head in hands. His fingers running through his hair. Or what was left of it.
He checked the answering machine: no messages. He glanced at his personal cell phone. No missed calls. No unread emails. No texts. He tossed it aside. His business phone was lit up like a Christmas tree and was vibrating itself off the nightstand.
The bed was still in the corner.
He brushed his teeth while reading scribbles on the mirror. More rhymes.
When he got up, he made a phone call. No answer.
He made breakfast. Well, raisin bran.
And he went off to work.
As soon as he got into the office, his staff bombarded him with questions. He answered all of them, nearly. Then he went to his own office and shut the door. He checked his email. Lots of email.
At lunch, he walked across the street with the guys to grab a burger. They all laughed and made small talk along the way. At the table, guys told stories about their kids, their vacation plans, their life. He sat silently, interjecting solely to provide laughs, often at his own expense.
When he got back to the office he ran around, helping people out. He was good at that. He was good at his job.
When he got home, he turned on the lights and everything was as he left it. There wasn't really much to leave, he noted.
Then he got on the computer.
At around midnight, he stumbled to bed.
He lay there amongst sheets and pillows, tossing and turning. He kicked his sheets off and screamed. He punched the wall, and then curled into a ball.
The next day, everyone at work had new questions for him, and he answered them all perfectly.
He walked across the stage, to the microphone.
"I'd like to thank everyone for coming."
Later that night.
He unloaded the car, dragged in his bags. Sat on his bed. Jet lag. Head in hands. His fingers running through his hair. Or what was left of it.
He checked the answering machine: no messages. He glanced at his personal cell phone. No missed calls. No unread emails. No texts. He tossed it aside. His business phone was lit up like a Christmas tree and was vibrating itself off the nightstand.
The bed was still in the corner.
He brushed his teeth while reading scribbles on the mirror. More rhymes.
When he got up, he made a phone call. No answer.
He made breakfast. Well, raisin bran.
And he went off to work.
As soon as he got into the office, his staff bombarded him with questions. He answered all of them, nearly. Then he went to his own office and shut the door. He checked his email. Lots of email.
At lunch, he walked across the street with the guys to grab a burger. They all laughed and made small talk along the way. At the table, guys told stories about their kids, their vacation plans, their life. He sat silently, interjecting solely to provide laughs, often at his own expense.
When he got back to the office he ran around, helping people out. He was good at that. He was good at his job.
When he got home, he turned on the lights and everything was as he left it. There wasn't really much to leave, he noted.
Then he got on the computer.
At around midnight, he stumbled to bed.
He lay there amongst sheets and pillows, tossing and turning. He kicked his sheets off and screamed. He punched the wall, and then curled into a ball.
The next day, everyone at work had new questions for him, and he answered them all perfectly.
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