The Immortal Richard CollinsA Story by JoshuaA story about a man in a small Colorado town who cannot die, but desperately wants to.Chapter One: Pancakes
He rolled out of his cot and hit the hardwood floor with a thump. Dust
settled around him as he rose to his feet. If it hadn't been for the
pillow that had slipped from the bed directly under his behind, he would
have been sore for the next few weeks. Luckily, it had. It always did.
The linens from his cot hung to the floor, the same dingy colour as his
undershirt. He stood there, rubbing his stubbled face with both hands
until the sun fluttered to life.
As light leaked across the mountains of Northern Colorado, as the few
sheep scattered along the hill to the west, as lumber tumbled in the
mill on the outskirts of town, Richard picked up his previous night's
glass of scotch and dove in. Three quick sips, just enough to feel
something. He did feel something. Richard continued there, feeling that
something until he could feel nothing else. Again he put his hands to
his face and rubbed against the stubble of his cheeks and upper lip.
Richard growled like a dog, threw his empty glass against the wall, and
stumbled towards the small bathroom. On the corner of the porcelain
sink sat a straight razor, bent at a forty degree angel, flecked with
rust. He turned on the faucet, slapped some water on his face, and
grabbed for the rough blade. The steel ripped across his face, grabbing
more flesh than hair every now and again until his morning shadow was
gone.
With the faucet still running Richard flexed his hand firmly against
the handle and brought the blade to his throat. Blood seeped down his
neck, soaking the dingy t-shirt, spilling across the blade. There he
stood, in a small cabin in Northern Colorado, staring into the
bathroom's cracked mirror. As he looked back into his own blue eyes he
saw himself dressed in satin, wrapped in head to toe in elaborate Asian
garb, sitting in a bathtub of the same porcelain. Richard saw himself
two-hundred years ago, sitting in blood with wrists slashed up to the
elbows, and how here in the early morning in the forest with bluebird
and blackbirds alike, he stands with the same intent as he had sitting,
soaking in a tub in the orient.
His knees grew weak as the droplets hit the floor, thumping just as he
had minutes earlier. His heart beat more rapidly now, but the blood
stopped hitting the floor, just as the streams had stopped in the
orient, just as the platelets had separated from the water and streamed
back into the lacerations on both his right and left arm. Today the
white of Richard's shirt creeped back up towards his neck, un-soaking
thread by thread, as if bleached inch by inch. The droplets rained
upward, like a spring pouring back into his veins, into his throat,
sealing tighter with each passing second. There he stood, the Immortal
Richard Collins, clean shaven and no worse for wear.
He wanted pancakes, stacks and stacks of them, with bananas, maybe even
walnuts if he was feeling feisty. Richard threw on a few more layers, a
brown leather jacket and mittens the size of grapefruit. He always wore
mittens, and for the last decade boots made by a tailor in Boston,
Massachusetts.
Richard closed the door behind him, knocking a few pieces of paint from
the chipped sides by the force of it. The cold waited to hit him until
he reached his car, which lay around the corner and near the evergreens
to the west. He put his keys into the lock and shuddered as the chill of
the wind smacked into the back of his neck. “Son of a b***h,” he said as he shrugged his shoulders towards his face, “It's worth some pancakes.” © 2011 Joshua |
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Added on March 16, 2011 Last Updated on March 16, 2011 AuthorJoshuaCarbondale, ILAboutI am a writer. I am a traveller. I am a worker. I am a lover. I am a thinker. I am a student. I am a reader. I am a human. more..Writing
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