Broken Home

A middle-aged man finds he is trapped by the very life he desires and in the course of a dramatic hour watches with surprising happiness as it is ripped apart.

Broken Home

One of the compulsory activities at the local University where I work is the staging of various cultural events which can range from lectures given by visiting international speakers to an indigenous pottery workshop. The responsibility of holding these open-days is managed on a rota basis and the next - an exhibition of oriental short-films - is mine. This morning I received an email saying that I would be in charge of hosting the event, introducing each film and its creator and closing the day by awarding a special prize to an already-chosen winner, selected for both its originality and craft. Considering recent themes and mediums - last month there was Balkan folk music - I felt lucky to have been given this duty until I realised the date of the exhibition fell on a national holiday. This, I fumed, was thoroughly unfair and in keeping with similar shabby treatment I had recently encountered - poor levels of cleanliness in my lecture rooms, a future Friday requested for unpaid leave reluctantly acknowledged. I immediately wrote back an angry - and, on examination, unnecessarily elaborate - email back, complaining vehemently about the choice of date. I then paced and stewed, numerous previous unclosed wrongs rising in my rage causing my stomach to knot and twist, imagined future conversations with my boss rehearsed and mentally rewritten until I received a kind reply from her explaining that I had confused my dates and the film contest was not until the following month, the day falling on a Thursday, a day, of course, I would be excused from regular teaching duties. I apologised immediately, offering up lame excuses of an unreliable computer diary and stress levels from recent, false, health issues. This happened a few hours ago.

What intrigues me now is the source of such anger. I had made no plans for that day and, truth be told, would have, had the idea been my own, rather enjoyed to spend my day in such a fashion instead of how I imagine I will now use that time - as I always do, alone, in my apartment, watching nature documentaries, reading modern fiction, cycling to the nearby forest, all closed with a glass of Carménère on the balcony. Yet, what fury! How careless and crass! Is that what I have become, now in the middle of my 5th decade, so set in my routine that even basic, fortuitous improvements drive me to confusion and anger?

I live in the second-floor of a colonial style building with a wide balcony that is at equal height to the perimeter wall of my building. It is well, if economically, furnished and boasts three bedrooms - one for a bed, one as a study and one as a storage facility, the latter being the least occupied. The University where I teach the required Advanced English Language course for first-year foreign students is a 15-minute cycle-ride away. Most days, after visiting the local supermarket on foot, I ride to work, then swim and shower before six hours of teaching made up of three classes. I am home by 8, tired and satisfied. I have my hair and health and if asked by a stranger if I was happy in general I would reply positively, although if forced to answer at any particular moment I cannot be sure my answer would be the same. But my only solid complaint is that each morning I awake with a dull pain in my ankles, no doubt from the cycling, that makes it hard to walk until I have showered and changed. However, all things considered, I should be happier than this, considering I have more or less what I have always wanted.

Last month, in an effort to modernise, I took the train to the nearest local city and spent more than I could afford on a new computer, TV and stereo set. It was, the salesman did not need to tell me, a great deal, especially as I would pay interest-free for the next 12 months. They are clearly superb machines yet the new computer baffles me when I attempt to do anything new, the television seems to loom at me from the sofa and the one time I played by Mahler concertos at more than half-volume my wall was hit by my neighbours mere moments later. A few days ago, a little drunk it must be told, I unpacked my old PC and set it up in the storage room just to formulate this year's budget. I am sure it is simply a process of becoming accustomed to technologies relentless pace and I recall my first PC was equally baffling. But there is a part of me that realises that given the expense, I should have been more careful about my choices. And another part which fears that perhaps this is how far I will go with the world of modernity, no new improvements will be made with me in mind.

I move out onto the balcony and peel an orange hoping the view - tall buildings edged in by forest and topped by morning cloud, all framed by a weak sun - will take my mind of this morning's debacle. I will bring my boss a coffee and a croissant to apologise. When here with my meals and drinks, thoughts usually fly around the past - the ex-wife and my missed young family - and the future - will any of this ever change? - but today I look down and see a young man walking past my road. He sees me and our eyes hold. I nod and he offers up a small wave. What does he see? I guess he envies me, at home eating fruit in the shadowy sun while others work and study, alone and at peace, the way we always envy anything we don't understand. The roofs of other houses cut our contact and I look back at the sky's glow.

As strange - and false - as it sounds I feel that I could have foreseen what was going to happen. How else could you explain my actions? Due to the minor yet significant increase in price, I had refused to purchase a new battery for the remote control that operates the large communal garage door of my apartment block that we all use to drive - or cycle - out onto the main road. Instead, I decided to wait for the supermarket to restock and hope that, as usual, our janitor George - an almost retired, bald black man, whose patience and kindness I believe holds no bounds - will simply push a button in his faded, plastic office, opening the door and letting me out, as he done numerous times before. I am downstairs, on my bicycle, ankles primed, and he is, of course, nowhere to be seen. I could quite simply put my bike down, run back up to the apartment, grab the small, thick key that opens the door manually but I know that as soon as I reach the stairs George will come round the corner, his wistful smile rising as he opens the door, ruefully shaking his head at having to help me once again.

Truth be told, I have left early in case of this dilemma and am in no state of panic, even as more minutes pass by. I can always have a shorter shower. I can always cycle faster. I look up and around, enjoying a moment, however forced, to take a look at a part of my world I never bother to see. I compare neighbours' cars and choose which one I would buy given the chance. I watch strange insects crawl across the parking lot floor. I look in happiness through the glistening leaves of an evergreen tree at the sun above. I think of my kids, as I do a million times a day, wondering what they are doing, praying they are doing fine. Looking back to my balcony my vision is blinded then blurred, making it difficult to focus on what I think I can see.

The perimeter wall is different. The sunspots flicker and dance. I think a side may have fallen away; there is a large black part covering what used to be sun-stained brick. What have I missed? Has there been a crash, a fall? No, it has been covered. The tangle of barbed wire that lines the top of the wall has been dragged down by the weight of what looks like a think piece of old cloth. I slowly cycle over and watch, looking up from below the building, my apartment above me, empty.

What is happening? I was right, a brown carpet has been thrown over. I hear the scuffle of shoes on tarmac and then - what? - a man is climbing over the wall. And another! Hoisting themselves up, balanced and crouched on the wall, their faces are concealed by bent baseball caps. From what I make out, from their clothing and body shape, they are young, and they are calm. With the sharpest of movements, the first man walks down the wall, steps onto the ridge that separates the first floor from the second, joins the building, and then with the shortest jump, is holding onto the top edge of my balcony! Pausing he looks around, his lungs heaving with tension. He quickly puts one leg over the wire wall and then the other. The other man follows but stays on the apartment wall, he does not move closer. I watch this all from below, out of sight, my neighbours own balcony concealing my figure from their line of sight. I cannot move. My fingers grip the brakes of my bike. Sweat, I feel, drills down my sides. But I cannot move. Not a muscle. I am frozen in - what? - shock, fear? My minds is telling me to shout, to scream, to call the police. Do it! This is your home, we are talking about, this is your life! Do it! But I do nothing. I remember watching a video about a mouse being hypnotized by a snake's eyes - Is this what is happening? I hear broken glass and my sun-cracked wooden balcony door pulled open. They are in.

It comes as little surprise to me that the man who is waiting and, I suppose, keeping guard, is the same man who I saw this morning. They were watching me, and they saw me leave. No doubt they had seen me leaving at this same time before. He waved at me! Anger, at this, is what screams in my mind, not that I am at this moment being robbed. It is after lunchtime and my quiet neighbourhood is at work, at school, eating or napping - I couldn't have planned this better myself. How foolish I must look, sitting on my bike, my back bent into a racing position, my brakes and ankles primed. For what, I don't know. Looking down, wind-whipped trees filter the sun into slices and splinters of waving light.

While the men emotionlessly remove my most expensive belongings - like ants, their heavy torsos hardly straining - I feel dreamy and isolated. It feels film-like, perhaps, or as if I was watching these events through water, vaguely menacing figures casting molten shadows onto the calm surface above. The first man passes my new TV to the second man who passes it over the wall to, I presume, a third man. Still, I remain fixed. This must be shock. But my thoughts are suddenly clear and bright. Bizarrely, an old memory comes to me of when my ex-wife and I had arrived at our small flat in north London late due to public transport problems from some musical event and rather than the elaborate restaurant dinner we had planned, bought some fresh vegetables from our local late-night grocers and some big bottles of Polish beer. As we sat, eating a simple but satisfying pasta dish, drinking our large glasses of frosty lager, I felt an overwhelming desire to live with a woman I loved in a cool European city and have a easy dinner with large bottles of cold beer.

The men carefully close my balcony door, the muffled crunch of glass underfoot audible. Once over the wall, unseen hands whip the carpet away, leaving thick twirls of brownish material hanging on the barbed wire, shaking in the wind. The bark of a motor and the men - and my possessions - are gone.

I am still here, motionless, brakes on, when George comes through the yawning garage gate, his hands raised in genuine panic. He begins to jog towards me, his face already mouthing words of shock and action. Before he is close enough for me to hear these words, I feel my old ankles push down and soon see myself swish past him and his flailing arms, through the gate and out into the world, houses and homes racing past me as I fly on, my eyes fixed upwards on the crests and shores of the sky.

© 2013 Andrew James Talbot

Author's Note

Be gentle! This is one of a new, finished (I hope) collection. Any feedback at all would be amazing.

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Noehm Strawhair

The word "cycle" repeats throughout the whole story but I think this is necessary due to the fact that many of us relate this word to simple monotonous daily actions that repeat over and over like a cycle, and when that cycle is broken due to a robbery, many of us react in a different way... In my case, I live in a place where robbery and death is an every-day event so near to me. I expect I would act relaxed, considering that when they kidnapped my neighbor I didn't even broke my cycle. YOUR story has made me realize all these things and let me tell you that it should not be normal that I react this cruel, cold way towards actions of this kind. Just as a recommendation, the story is kind of difficult to follow at the beginning due to the lack of a surprising or catchy-to-the-eye first sentence. Remember, this sentence is the one that can decide if a reader continues or not and it is like a first impression. If you want to furiously share a message, it can be implicit in the first sentence so the reader subconsciously starts his or her reflection but of course, it is just an option I am suggesting especially because of the length and the way this story starts. It is not absolutely necessary, but it can give impact. Thank you for making me reflect on my own "cycle", and "home" where these events happen all the time and indifference inside of me has grown.