Dear Anybody

A Story by T.K. Clay

WARNING: SOME LANGUAGE AND ADULT THEMES A young man plays a dark game when he's alone.

I check my watch. The hands point me the time 12:37, but it's probably later because the stupid thing keeps stopping randomly, and I've gradually been losing the will to start it again.

My ancient apartment door creaks when I pull it behind me. It doesn't shut completely right now, thanks to a misguided man who thought I was the guy his girlfriend was sleeping with.

After seeing that bear of a man, I felt sorry for the guy his girlfriend was ACTUALLY cheating with. Well OK, to be honest, "bear" might not be the most accurate word. It may be an understatement; the f*****g guy had stacks of muscles so manly they grew scowling faces each with stronger beards than the love child of ZZ Top and Zeus.

I tie a belt around a lamp and the doorknob, securing them to each other so I can use a rectangle of wood to block myself from the world for a bit.

Flinging my keys and jacket (that I affectionately refer to as "Anus Coat" because of an unfortunately-shaped hole in it) onto a grimey couch with a pattern only a grandma could love, I make my way to the pitiful space I call a kitchen while thinking about what would happen if Zeus really did produce offspring with ZZ top. Knowing Zeus's character from the myths, it's not such a stretch to think he would hump each and every member a classic band. And each and every member of said classic band's beards.

I open my fridge and am presented with a choice; tonight's cuisine can either be a week-old slice of pizza, or two classy pudding cups. I sigh--why haven't I bought more food?

I choose the pudding cups. Open a drawer--aaaand I have no clean spoons. I check the sink to see if I can find a not too terrible one. I do, and all it would take is maybe thirty seconds to wash it properly.

Pizza, here I come! Cleaning silverware is too much to ask of me right now.

I take my king's feast and head to my ugly couch. Flick on the television for something, anything new or interesting.

Sports channel. No actual sports, just people talking about sports.

The news. A dull man and plain woman read off the spectacularly dull events of a dog show and the story of a boy band who went to a children's hospital for an hour and gave a few of the kids very photogenic hugs.

A sitcom, an old black and white one. A joke is made, and the tv audience laughs. I don't, because all I can think about is how I'm listening to dead people laugh.

I turn my TV off, defeated, and swallow the last of my pizza. I'm not sure, but I think it had some mold on it.

For a while, I just kind of sit here. Not really doing anything besides taking in the world around me. All I hear is the chilly January wind softly gusting outside my building, and my porn addicted neighbor watching porn. Through some shredded blinds, the full moon is reflecting the sun's light as intensely as prison reflects one's bad decisions and is bathing my living room in an ethereal light.

And what am I doing? Sitting. I'm sitting on my a*s. How long? I don't know. Feels like hours, all wasted doing nothing.

Guilt is lodged firmly in my gut, but it's not until I feel the familiar urge to piss do I stand.

In the bathroom, I pretend that my penis is a cyclopes that shoots acid from its eye. Penises can't make many noises, so I have to provide the sound effects. "Raarg. Grrarg. Die." These are the things I whisper in a monster-like voice as my penis douses the denizens of Shitwater City with his golden rage.

I begin to leave without washing my hands, but then stop. Maybe I can improve myself a bit? I turn on the water and catch a glimpse of my dirty mirror.

A young man with a blank face is there. I can't read anything on it. There's nothing. Not a clue as to what the plain-faced man with the big(ish) nose and messy dark hair is thinking.

"Smile, guy," I tell him. A half-smile appears on the man in front of me, and I see that he has crooked teeth. Almost immediately the smile flees back into its defense mode; a neutral line.

I gaze at myself. Myself gazes back. My flaws are glaring, and an eternity of staring is over in a second when I shut my eyes and slump my forehead against the mirror.

Minutes crawl by. Or just seconds. I can't tell. My watch doesn't work. Thinking absolutely nothing, feeling absolutely nothing, and getting absolutely nothing accomplished, I stand straight and move to my bedroom.

Well... it's not exactly a bedroom. It's a mattress, a pillow, and sheets next to a drawer filled with socks in the corner of a mostly empty room under a ceiling that's spotted from years of rain that has seeped through the apartment complex's roof.

I fumble blindly until I find the desklamp that sits atop the drawer. A dim light flashes on.

I plop down on my bed and resume doing nothing. Well, besides staring at my floor. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my phone. I turn it on.

No new messages. None from my (only) two friends. None from my boss, and none from that cute girl I work with. I don't even have one from that a*****e at work who only ever seems to talk to me when he needs someone to fill in for him so he can go out drinking.

Oh! Speak of the devil.

ASSWIPE (my name for him): Yo can u take my shift tomorrow nite?

ME: Why?

(Too bad I suck at conversation.)

ASSWIPE: I hav to go to my gma's funeral

ME: How many funerals has she had?

ASSWIPE: wat

ME: youve went to a lot of funerals for her...

No response for a bit, and i'm actively staring at my phone.

ASSWIPE: diff gma dude

ME: i bet.

Should I have sent an emoticon to show how much I don't believe him?

ASSWIPE: so can u

I begin typing "no," then erase it and instead type: "Maybe. Wassup?"

No response again. Then my display lights up the dark room again.

ASSWIPE: can u or can u not

I sigh. Clench my teeth. Type "no." Send it. Let my phone slide out of my hand to the floor.

To the side of my bed, the drawer. In it is a game I've played only twice before when I felt like this.

I begin to think about funerals. Like, what would be a weird funeral? A funeral for a nudist would be pretty weird. I mean, all of their nudist friends would be there. Wouldn't that be bizarre? A bunch of nude people in a cemetary?

I pull open the drawer and dig through my socks. I pull out a shiny bullet.

A funeral for a person who died of auto-erotic asphyxiation would be unbearably awkward too. Like, I can't even grasp the concept of choking yourself for pleasure. Seriously, if someone were to come up and start strangling you and your response is to get a boner, evolution fucked up SPLENDIDLY with you.

I clear more socks out of the way. A moment later, I pull out a slick revolver, the kind people would use to play Russian roulette. The light catches on it in a way that makes it cast a hauntingly beautiful glow.

I wonder who would show up at my funeral?

My stare lingers on the bullet, then the gun, then the bullet again.

I set them down on the drawer's top, and from the bottom compartment I withdraw a writing pad and a pencil.

I feel as though I should write something, any little thing.

"Dear" I begin, but can't go any further, because who do I write this to? I rack my brain.

Dear Anybody,
I'm sorry I didn't give up sooner.

I swap the writing utensils for the macabre pieces of metal. I load the bullet into a chamber, and spin the cylinder before locking it into place.

And then... I just look at it. Not thinking about yesterday, today, or tomorrow. It's just me and my weapon as I become oblivious to the passage of time.

Then finally, the barrel goes to my temple.

My finger to the trigger.

I pull.

CLICK!
With a humorless chuckle, I check the ammo. A very narrow miss; another attempt would've done me in.

Removing the bullet, I place the contents of the drawer back and reset my watch.