A Breath of Fresh Air

Sometimes company for long periods of time can cause a feeling of suffocation

I know I might looked strung out, gasping for air even, but a friend like you has got to believe me when I say I had no other choice. Sacrifice one to save the rest, right? Look, before you say the usual bull, I am sorry but you do old friend, you’ve got to hear me out. After all we’re in this together you and I.

            It was after I just finished my 2^nd book, Lost for Words, which is another one of my romantic novels that you adore so much. Don’t laugh! You should really give them a chance sometime. Anyway, I finish the book and everything is going great. The publisher loves it, the public eats it up, and I make a killing. This house didn’t pay for itself, you know? So I am at a book signing one lovely downpour of an afternoon, I mean just like drowning in your own pool s****y, and I see Aunt Beatrice. You know the one with the big, fat, coke bottle glasses? Yeah, and she comes into my f*****g book signing gulping all the air up while screaming at me. You would have thought I had been shot, or something. I sign her book, and tell her to meet me at Danny’s Donuts down the block in a half hour so we can catch up. Why the hell do you look so surprised for? Come on, I can be a nice guy every once in a while.

            So I meet her at the diner, and it wasn’t as bad as I expected. We laughed a little, but then she had to ask her successful nephew for a favor. I am telling you man, you can’t remain at peace and be successful at the same time. People are like rats, they only come around when you have a pocket full of cheese. So she asks me if my cousin Winston could stay with me for a bit while she visits her friends in Florida. How could I tell a family member no? Plus, I had lived alone for so long, I thought having someone around would give me something to pull ideas from.

            I can remember Winston back in the ole days. He was in a wheelchair back then too, but you couldn’t tell the difference because of the way he carried himself. I always had a certain respect for cripples. The chinks in their armor was their strongest attribute.  

            So a week goes by, and Aunt Beatrice arrives to the estate with ole Winston. He hadn’t changed much since we were kids. Now that he was in his mid-twenties, like myself, his red hair had grown into a messy monster that sat on that top of his head and hung around his chin. Kind of like that red fellow from Sesame Street. Oh what’s his face? Damn, that’s going to bug the hell out of me. Anyway, we shoot the s**t and Aunt Beatrice leaves for Florida so it’s just the two of us for three weeks.

            I helped him up the stairs so he could make himself at home, and started making dinner. I haven’t had company over in years, so I was going to make it special. Swell kind of guy I am, huh? Well I fix up some spaghetti with all the extras, like mom used to make. We laughed, and drank, until our stomachs were full. I had not realized how drunk I was until I stood up, and Winston can’t so I was having a harder time than he was. He was pretty intellectual for a fellow with no legs. I enjoyed the company.

            He went to bed after the fun had ended, and I wasn’t tired yet so I decided to try a whack at another project. I stumbled over to the mahogany desk, almost missing my chair I might add. I took out my lucky pen, and nothing. Nothing for three hours. I had always heard of writer’s block, but had never experienced it myself. I eventually thought nothing of it, and went to bed.

            So I got up out of bed the next morning with a sense of drive instilled in me. I woke Winston up, and tried to pull material from him that instant. He seemed rather resistant to the brain flow I was trying to conjure up. I eventually gave up the farce, and admitted defeat in the hunt for a new source. The next couple of days were increasingly becoming stale. He never left the house. He just sat in there reading all of my books from the library, sucking up all of the air! I would leave the house to grab groceries, and such, and he would still be there! Sitting in the den reading another book!

            I would wait until he went to bed to try to write, because I cannot write while people are around. Still nothing! Some nights I would feel this panic that made it harder to breath. Even though he was all the way upstairs, I could hear him. I could hear him stealing my air! This house was not accustomed to more than one soul living here. I could not just share the air I needed to live with this cripple, family or not.

            I tried to just wait the rest of the time, so Aunt Beatrice could come get the fiend. I really did, I promise! My mind would play tricks on me, and Winston would just sit there like nothing ever happened. The house would even speak to me at times. Begin to question my sanity, because I let this parasite continue to thrive in side of it. I bet that was the b******s plan all along! To come to my house, and kill me off so he could claim it for himself. I was left with no other choice, I had to kill him before he killed me.

            So I waited the following night for him to fall into a heavy sleep. I waited in anticipation, grinning at the riches the future held for myself. I would finally be able to take a solitary breath. Then I heard him upstairs; breathing in slow, and heavy gargles. I creeped upstairs to his room; making sure to not make a single sound. I was a ninja in a past life, I am telling you. So I get in the room, and reached for the nearest pillow. I was going to suffocate the b*****d, like he had tried to do to me. I stopped when I clasped the murder weapon. Was I right? Was I just self-reflecting upon an innocent lamb? The house whispered for me to continue in my work. To do the righteous deed.     

            I quickly pressed the pillow over his face; making sure to use all of my weight. The body came alive, and began to thrash and claw away at me. The screams were muffled by the heavy pillow. I leaned in and whispered, “I will no longer sit while you infect this house, and destroy my well-being clever Winston.” In that instant the beast stopped fighting, and made subtle confused sound. After he died, I sat on the bed and thought about that. He really did not know why he was dying. Do any of us truly know in those last fleeting moments? Is death just simply naturalistic or do we die because we rely on what’s natural?    

            After that I ran straight to tell the only person I could trust, you of course. So you, and I, are in this together now. So try not to argue with me. That is what is crazy about life, don’t you know? Reflections are the only friends you can keep in this world.