Crossing The Line

Short story, written in response to the prompt: "you care about someone and something bad happens to them but you have minimal presence in their life and can't get involved".

"Sir?"..."Sir, are you still there?" came the voice through the Cadillac's bluetooth connection. "Yeah, yeah, I'm here. Just...just not sure why..." His voice trailing off into the distance and years that had come between them. How long had it been after all? After all the coke, after all the booze, after all the Friday nights became Saturday mornings and after all the Sunday-fundays turned into the little red blossoms in the corners of his eternally runny nose. Had it really been a lifetime already?

 

"Nevermind. Just cancel my order altogether" he barked to the operator. Had he really just called 1-800-FLOWERS? Like a dozen decaying roses could ever make up for what he put her through. And now this. F**k. She didn't deserve to die this way. That was his burden, his debt owed to the final scorekeeper. She had stopped so long ago. Cut her ties to everything this life represented, including himself, yet here she was paying his share of the dues once again.

 

This was his right. Not by birth, but by choice. He saw the conclusion reflected between the lines on every crusty mirror. How this would all play out in the bottom of every shot of Jameson the way Chinamen read tea leaves. He looked his own death in the eye every morning and every night. And blew another. Poured another. Smoked another. Anything and everything  to temper the dull ache of existence, relentlessly inching toward the sweet release of the end.

 

But she, oh god, she wanted something more out of this life. Something beautiful. He knew early on that she was never cut out for life on the fringes; but his own selfishness hid that truth deep inside him. Locked away in a place so hidden, he couldn't hear its screams as he lined up her first bump. That night, they fucked like teenagers on coke, with crude, unending passion. He gave her his essence, and she gave him brief respite from the winter of his heartache.

 

Their love and addictions grew fiercely, defiantly. Relishing in the wonder of personal experience as only those who have bent the rules of the mind can truly understand. Highs followed lows, violence became lovemaking, and back again. He was at home in the swirling breeze their life had become, yet always averting his gaze from that hidden place inside.

 

When she OD’d for the first time, the first crack in that dark door appeared. When she missed her mother’s funeral, it burst wide open. He knew that he could no longer force his depravity on her; and though she insisted that she lived out of choice, he knew it was never hers to make. She awoke alone in the morning, for the first time in her life. His cowardice hastily scribbled in three short lines on the back of a pizza box. I’m sorry, but you must start a new journey without me. I will always love you.

 

She cried an ocean of tears that day, and every day for longer than she’d care to admit. But she found a way to channel that pain. She decided that day to change, to acknowledge a power greater than herself. She worked the system, and the system worked for her, and one day she found herself looking back at the person she had been and become. Bruised and battered by a hurricane of emotions, but still here. Still. Here.

 

Pulling her baggage behind her, she completed college. She got a job as a teacher, first grade, and soon had a boyfriend turned husband turned father to her two kids. They moved to Seattle, she always found the rain comforting, and life was good.

 

Then came the call. The one we all know and fear. It was in her left breast, and heading toward her lymphatic system. Her family, dumfounded when she explained her history of drug and alcohol abuse to the doctor, gathered to support her as best a broken heart can, anyway. A double mastectomy left her scarred and scared, but still time and the cancer marched on. The doctor’s face was whiter than his coat the day he summarized the rest of her life in a number. “6 to 8 weeks”, he said, the words ricocheting off the hospital walls.

 

The smoke from his last butt still trailing out of his sunroof, he fumbled with the Cadillac’s cigarette lighter. Half a pack a day, he had told his doctor, and a handle of Crown Royal a week. For twenty-six years. And still, nothing. He had the money, so he paid for the tests - battery of needles and whirring machines. Blood dye and treadmills, cardiac monitors and gene sequencing, all the latest technology, all the best doctors agree: There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you.

 

That was the hardest part of it all, he thought as he nosed the Cadillac onto the freeway. He had knowingly set out to expedite his own death by amplifying his own life, but fate can be a fickle b***h sometimes. She had quit everything twenty years ago. Gone straight and narrow, as they say, but the damage was done. He would give anything, and he had seemingly endless resources these days, to trade places with her. Just to see her one more time. To kiss her on the forehead like he did on cold nights all those years ago, and tell her everything would be alright. But that was before, and this was after. He knew now that he would never see her again. His cigarette caught, and he exhaled slowly as the powerful vehicle sped up. The rumble of the center median bumps as he crossed into oncoming traffic made a fitting dirge, he thought, for a life spent crossing the lines.

Author's Note

My first time ever writing anything outside of school assignments. I would greatly appreciate help/input with: the title, proofreading, the story itself, anything else!

Reviews

[Walter Sagace]

Here goes :D

My review consists of three parts: title, things where I think it bumped (you can ignore these if you disagree) and overall review.

Title suggestions: Highway to Hell, Life is a B***h, A Runny Nose, A Depression in the Weather.
Other options could be simpler, like Drugs, Absence, Depressed. In the end, it's up to you, and even if you don't like my titles you could use their thematic meaning as a starting point.

Where it bumped (for me):
First paragraph. "His voice trailing off" is imo an error because of the period you put in front, it means he's stopped talking, and hence his voice trails off, it can't be trailing off. Feel free to ignore.
Fifth paragraph, "always averting his internal gaze from that hidden place." Maybe restructure to "always averting his gaze from that hidden place inside"
Seventh paragraph, "But she found a way to channel that pain into motivation" I think 'into motivation' is superfluous.

Story itself. I think it's a really great story, even if it's not my style. It looks a bit like Stephen King, which you can take as a compliment or an insult depending on what you think of him, but I meant it as a compliment. The story is certainly very well written, no question about that, plot is good, start and end are good.

Minor remarks:
afterall (first paragraph) needs a space.
Second paragraph, "had he really just called" there's a double space in front of this phrase.
Third paragraph. Anything and everything TO (missing) temper the and so on.

Why do I have only minor comments? Because I have no criticism on anything else, hehe.

[Cameron]

Thank you kindly for taking the time to read and critique. Each of your comments are well received, and I have changed some things in hopes it reads a little better. Thanks also for the title suggestions. Though I have taken another route, you pointed me in the right direction. Best wishes, I look forward to reading more of your work as well.

[RenatoRojo]

I liked it, I believe the previous review covered some of the technical errors. However I felt like the love affair when they were young could have been elaborated further in order to understand that it was not just the drugs but something deeper.