The Conversation

An idea born in the throes of sleep deprivation. Something surreal, my first attempt at a short story.

      

There was just so much he hadn’t done in his life that he wanted to do, but all he could focus on right now was the pain that was throbbing inside him, like a red hot poker being driven through his heart. The circumstances that had led to this happening didn’t make any sense to him; he kept playing them over and over in his head trying to make sense of what had happened. There was just no explanation why it had all boiled down to this one single moment.

Lets back up a little, our hero, David, was an ordinary guy just living his normal routine life like the rest of us, another cog in the giant machine that is the human race. He had a decent enough job, a small but comfortable house in the suburbs and a girlfriend who he met after college and had been together with since then, a few friends, not unlike most of us.

He walks home one day and finds that his girlfriend is not home and the house is not brightly lit as usual, he walks into the kitchen and as he reaches for the fridge door to grab a beer, he finds a post it note stuck on the refrigerator door, he picks it up and read it-

“Goodbye David. This isn’t working anymore. I need some space for myself. Sorry.

P.S.-There’s meatloaf in the oven and I took the T.V. with me.”

So that was it, one part of his life just suddenly decides to walk out of his life. After 3 years of living together, this is what he gets? A meatloaf and a sorry note?

As he stands there holding the note, he feels himself numbing up to the shock, at least he still had his job and his house, and decides to push it to the back of his mind and focuses on the meat loaf. He cuts a slice and grabs a beer from the fridge and goes to his desk and checks his email.

The first email he sees is from his boss, and the time was a little bit after 5, which meant that it came in sometime during his commute home. As he scrolls down the page numbness begins to gnaw at his gullet and his hand starts trembling as he stares at the word that was flaming in front of his eyes-FIRED.

The bottom had dropped out of his world; his comfortable routine life had been shattered into smithereens in just one day. He feels empty, like his soul had suddenly vacated his body. As he sits there trying to make sense of things, thoughts start creeping into his brain. Thoughts of him going upstairs and putting that shotgun he kept under the bed into his mouth and just ending it all for good.

He walks upstairs like a man in a dream, and as he walks into the bedroom he catches a faint whiff of his girlfriend’s perfume which smells like napalm to him now and sits on the bed, takes out the shotgun from underneath, puts it into his mouth, and just as he is about to raise a middle finger to life and pull the trig-

“Whoa whoa buddy! What the hell do you think you are doing?”

Who is he talking to? Is this the rambling of a man who is just inches away from taking his own life?

“I am talking to you, you pretentious little b*****d.”

Maybe this is just an internal conflict arising from his deep seeded instinct of self preservation making him crea-

“Will you cut the crap already? Stop preaching this pseudo-intellectual bullshit man.”

Is he talking to me? That’s impossible.

“Yeah? Well it’s happening aint it, so that makes it possible.”

But you are just a figment of my imagination, how can this be happening?

“Look all I want is my life back and you can do it so get to it.”

What do you mean your life? You are just a thought in my head.

“Think again. I had a life, a world and it took you 10 min to tear it to shreds.”

But you are just a made up character. This doesn’t make any sense. I shouldn’t be having this conversation at all.

“We are going to have this conversation, whether you like it or not!”

I am going to stop writing now.

“I am warning you, you won’t be able to write anything after this, I swear!”

Why? What are you going to do about it? What CAN you do about it?

“You created me that means that in this reality I am going to exist till you finish my story. And while I am sitting idle I can do a whole lot of damage.”

What?!?

“It means that if you don’t give me my life back, I am going to kill every single character you imagine up.”

You can do that???

“You bet I can. Want me to tell you what that redhead you were dreaming about looks like from my window?”

What lady? Oh, hey, no…c’mon that’s just not fair.

“Fair!! You call taking a man’s life away in an instant fair?”

But the life you had is the one I gave you. Without me dreaming you up, you wouldn’t exist at all.

“That’s what you believe.”

What’s that supposed to mean?

“Listen all your subconscious imagination and dreaming actually creates a reality.”

You mean like an alternate reality, like a different dimension or something?

“No you dipshit, it means that every time you imagine something or dream something you create a world inside your head where they stay.”

You mean like a sanctuary in my subconscious?

“Exactly.”

So you are saying that all of the things I ever imagined actually have a place where they exist?

‘Yes, every single one of them. From your imaginary friend when you were 2 till me, the poor unfortunate guy who you want to eat a load of buckshot.”

But how come this has never happened before?

“Because you never acted like such an idiot before.”

Meaning I always gave my creations a happy end or just forgot about them?

“If you say so, listen can we move on now?”

Move on where?

“To the part where you give me my life and my T.V. back.”

What if I don’t? I mean I have to finish what I started.

“So you are willing to kill me off, just to finish this one story and face a mental block for the rest of your miserable life?”

You can’t do that. You can’t stop me from writing.

“Just imagine, not being able to write beyond 3 pages, every time a character pops into your mind, it suddenly disappears. Imagine having to stare at blank pages for the rest of your life.

You wouldn’t dare. You wouldn’t...

“Oh really? What have I got to lose?”

Well…                

“I am waiting genius.”

Wait a minute, you said that my imagination is what populates your world and is basically what created it, right?

“Correct. What’s your point?”

My point is my sad little friend that if I stop imagining, your world stops existing.

“Hell no!”

Hell yes my friend.

“Damn it. Why didn’t I think of this?

So what now?

“What do you mean what now? You got what you wanted. You win. Kill me then.”

I wasn’t going to kill you.

“Oh yes you were. All you writers are the same.”

What do you mean?

‘It means figure it out yourself if you think you’re so damn smart.”

Hey just wait for a minute! David, listen to me. But there is no reply, all is quiet. For a while I sit and think about what he said. What he meant by saying that all us writers are the same.

As David’s finger inches towards the trigger, his phone rings suddenly, startling him. He puts the guns on the bed; he is drenched with sweat and is trembling all over. His voice shakes when he answers the phone.

“He-Hello.”

“Hello David, its Arthur, your boss, listen I am sorry about that email.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I accidently sent it to you; I still haven’t got the hang of my new operating system. I am sorry I shocked you so badly.”

“I- I don’t know what to say...”

“Anyways, sorry again and I expect you to be in the office on time tomorrow. Bye now.”

“Yeah, see you.”

As he hangs up, David is confused, what is happening, this wasn’t how he pictured it. Then the door bell rang. As he walks down the stairs his mind trying to grasp what was happening. He opens the door and there standing in front of him, her eye filled with tears is Claire, his girlfriend. She flings her arms around him and starts sobbing whispering apologies, as David runs his fingers through her hair, he finally realizes what has happened and he looks up at the sky and smiles.

I get up from my desk and stretch and walk to the window, gazing out at the view, the birds flying, crossing the steel grid that my reinforced windows make. The bare grey walls lie in stark contrast to the bright world outside, the colors too bright for my unaccustomed eyes. There’s a soft knock on the door, and a nurse comes in with a tray of some fruit and a paper cup with 2 shiny pills.

“Here’s your breakfast and medicine and when you are done the orderlies will be waiting outside to escort you to the operation theater.” She keeps the tray on the desk and walks out.

As I look at sun shining brightly outside, I think to myself-Its going to be a beautiful day.

 

 

Author's Note

Not very polished, but an honest attempt.