Mad Rush

ATTENTION: This story has a song that goes with it. Find 'Mad Rush' by Philip Glass and click on play once you start reading. I intend to film this one day. Thank you.

Eyes blink open, an alarm clock going off at seven in the morning. A man sighs, staring at his palm. He has a photograph in his hand, a photograph of a woman with black hair and kind eyes. Her photograph has no color. He places it next to the alarm clock and swings his legs out of bed, hunched over, looking at the hardwood floor before heaving himself out of bed and walking across the room into the bathroom. His shower door steams up, and the shoulders of the man are hunched as they lean against the wall. The water falls on him in a pattern of clean monotony.. The man gets out and stares in the mirror as he brushes his teeth. His movements are listless. He spits and looks back up at his reflection, at his tired eyes, slightly purple underneath from sleepless nights. He wipes his mouth and walks away to get dressed.

The man walks out of his apartment door, bundled up with a striped scarf and a black jacket. He looks left, he looks right, and he walks down the steps and heads up the street, a briefcase in hand, and all that can be heard in the early morning fog is the sound of his footsteps.

The man waits at a bus stop, standing, staring off into space. He sighs again and glances at the sky. It's grey and cloudy, looks like rain. Not a spot of light anywhere. He stares back off into space, and sure enough, it starts raining. He adjusts his grip on the briefcase, looks at his watch. 7:36. The bus comes rumbling up, spewing grey clouds behind it. Its presence aches of pollution, and as the man steps on the bus, he can't help but think that the inside is as gloomy as the outside, because everyone is wearing grey. He looks around before finding a place to stand among the sea of people, who are all looking down at phones or searching out the window for their next stop. A baby sits in a stroller at his knees, crying, although for some reason he does not hear its cries. The man looks at the mother, who is trying to calm the baby down. The man almost smiles, but then the bus lurches to a stop and the woman hurries off the bus with her baby, and his face falls stoic again.

The man is sitting at a desk in an office, a grey office with a faded wooden door and a worn name tag, although at this angle it is unreadable. He sits, staring at a computer, typing away tiredly. Light pours in as the wooden door is opened, and the man looks up. His boss leans in the door, points to the stack of papers on the man's desk. The man looks at the clock. It's noon, time for lunch. The man looks up at the boss, as if for confirmation that yes, it is indeed lunchtime. The boss shakes his head, points to the papers again, and slams the door, although he does not hear the door slam. A paper ruffles on the desk, and the man sighs yet again. It seems like his life is full of sighs.

In the evening the man gets up from the desk in the darkened office room. The stack of papers are gone, his days work finished. He looks back at his desk, at the one picture he has hanging up on the wall. It's a painting of a river, a beautiful painting and although the colors are faded, it's the first color he’s seen all day, as it is every day.

The man walks out of the office, briefcase in hand. He walks down the street to the bus stop. The man enters his apartment and flicks on the lights, although there isn't much change of light in the room except for the shadow of the man's presence. The apartment is bare, save for a table and a chair by the tiny kitchen and a loveseat in what is meant to be the living room. There's a faded rug in the middle of the living room, and a stack of untouched books by the patio of the apartment. The man looks in his fridge and finds nothing there but a bottle of water and half a sandwich. Ham, maybe.

The man sits at the table, eating his sandwich and staring off into space.

We see the man sitting at the edge of his bed, and he looks as if he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. He heaves one final, heavy sigh that racks his body like a shiver, and he lays down to go to sleep, his alarm clock glowing in the darkened bedroom. His bedroom, too, is barren, save for the bed he lays in and a tiny nightstand with the one alarm clock, a cellphone that has been untouched, and a simple white lamp, which has also, so far, gone unused. He grabs the photograph of the woman again, and falls asleep with it in his hand.

The alarm clock again, blinking at seven o'clock like so many days past. The man is already awake and has probably been awake for a long time. He slides his hand out of the covers and clicks the alarm clock to silence, although he barely hears its annoying call. He puts the photograph back on the cabinet. For a moment the man lingers, and he cranes his head to look out the tiny bathroom window. It's grey outside, so grey it almost matches his bathroom wall. His gaze falls on the cellphone, and he picks it up. He has a flip phone, worn and scratched and cracked. He clicks down to his work contact, and debates on calling in sick. He puts the phone down and heaves himself out of bed, padding into the bathroom and shutting the door.

The man brushes his teeth, looking into his own sad, grey eyes.

The days repeat themselves, each time seeming shorter and shorter until he finds himself stopped at the bus stop again. He has his briefcase and his scarf and his coat, and this time an umbrella. He's ready for the weather, and glances up at the sky as if to dare it to rain. It takes his challenge, and it begins to pour once more. He stares straight ahead and readjusts his grip on the briefcase. He stares into nothing, and one would be hard pressed to find a blanker, more desolate look on a person's face. He looks as if he's about to sigh, but then we hear footsteps approaching, and the man turns to look. A woman in a blue peacoat and blue jeans and blue boots runs to the bus stop, trying to cover her hair with the mornings newspaper. She has long, brown hair hair and bright azul eyes. She's short, curvy, and her eyebrows scrunch up as she glares at the sky angrily. The sky doesn't seem to care. The man is staring at her, and suddenly the color of his eyes are green, and his hair is brown, and his scarf is blue, too. As if in a daze, he opens his umbrella and holds it out to her, offering to shelter her. She hesitates, looking at him warily, but he still has that lost look on his face, and so she smiles up at him, stepping underneath the umbrella gratefully. They smile at each other. They stand there for a moment, smiling in content silence with each other. It's the first time he's smiled in a long time.

Then the bus comes, and she doesn't need the umbrella anymore. She looks a little disappointed, but she gives him a small half-smile and jumps on the bus. He follows, and stands in front of where the woman is sitting, attempting to read the newspaper that she used to cover her hair, which is soaking wet. He can't stop looking at her, and she can't stop looking at him, and they both keep smiling shyly before looking down, as if trying to hold themselves back from looking.

Too soon, though, the bus crawls to a stop, and the woman's face has fallen in disappointment. She stands up to get off, and everything goes into slow motion. Her shoes slowly walk away. The bus seems to stretch, pulling her away from the man slowly as he watches her go. He gets one last look at the woman as she glances back at him over her shoulder, gives him one last smile, and gets off the bus. The doors close, and the sound of them closing is loud, so loud the man jumps in alarm.

The bus is stopped at a red light. He can hear the rumbling of the bus now, gradually getting louder and louder. The man looks around, and everyone is looking at him with blank, yet pained expressions on their faces. They're still wearing grey. The man looks outside, and for the very first time, he can see colors outside. The sky isn't plain grey but is in fact a faded blue. There are trees outside, and the sidewalk is full of people. He cranes his neck to look out the window opposite him, and he can see the woman waiting at a crosswalk. She's holding the paper up above her head in the rain again, looking up and down the street and perhaps back to the bus a few times.

The man's eyes close, as they close, as he decides. In a burst, he shoves his way off the bus, frantic through the crowd that seems to be holding him back. For a moment, it seems as if he's not going to make it. He's almost swallowed by the crowd.

But then he gets out.

The outside is in full color now. The people outside are dressed in all colors, walking by and not paying much attention to the man as he rushes past them all to catch up to the woman. He reaches her just as she's about to cross the street. She's given up trying to save her hair from the downpour. He covers her with his umbrella and smiles tentatively at her, biting his lip, suddenly nervous as he realizes what he's just done. The woman jumps, startled, but then sees who it is and beams a smile at him. They look at each other for a moment, and then they laugh, shakily, as if they had been holding their breath.

Soon they are in a cafe window, talking and laughing about something as they drink coffee. Well, she's drinking hot chocolate, but that doesn't matter. It's still raining, but they don't care.

Soon they are walking down the street on a sunny day, holding hands that seem to fit perfectly. She squeezes his hand and he squeezes back.

Soon they are at the porch of her apartment building, standing outside the door, standing a little embarrassed. He leans in and kisses her softly on the lips, and when they pull away she smiles and pecks him on the cheek before rushing inside. He walks away and keeps looking back at her building with a smile on his face.

In months, it's at a park. It's sunny outside, and the light is over-washed and bright. He's trying to get a kite to fly and she's laughing and taking pictures. He walks up and wraps his arms around her from behind, smiling as they take a picture. They lay next to each other on the grass, her sleeping on his chest and him stroking her hair as he falls asleep himself in the sun.

The lights are out, but the silhouette of their bodies on his bed dance on the wall, him pulling her shirt off as she helps, their lips racing to catch each other as much as they can. Their bodies press together.

The man is looking at the photograph from before. He stares at it, and then looks up at the woman standing in his doorway now. He smiles, puts the photograph inside the cabinet and then get up. He's finally letting go.

They're moving boxes into his empty apartment, moving furniture in. They slowly watch the apartment fill with life and objects and light.

They're sitting on the bus with groceries in their arms, and she's rolling her eyes as he pulls a packet of Red Vines out and waves them at her temptingly. She looks down at the bag of vegetables and looks back up at him, raising her eyebrows as if to say 'We're trying to stay healthy, remember?' He opens the packet and offers her a Red Vine, and she accepts it grudgingly as he laughs.

A year goes by, and he's setting up an easel, sitting in front of the window at their apartment, as he begins to paint. She walks by and stops for a moment, watching him with a soft smile on her face.

They're at an amusement park. She drags him on a roller coaster and wins him a big stuffed bear. He drags her on the slingshot ride and buys her ice cream. She offers him a bite and then presses it into his nose, cracking up. He takes the challenge and does the same, kissing it off as she laughs in protest.

The lighting is different now, darker. They're at the store, and he holds out a packet of Red Vines, grinning. She smiles, but it's half-hearted, and her hand is on her forehead and she winces as if she's got a headache, and he frowns, putting the Red Vines down and grabbing her hand. She tries to make her smile more genuine, but it fails, and the lights in the store dim just a little bit.

A month later, she's lying in bed, curled up on herself, crying as she holds her head. He sits next to her and rubs her back, helpless.

They're in a doctor's office. He's holding a folder and his face is grim. He studies the two of them and his face says it all. I'm sorry, it says as he looks at her. I'm sorry, it says as he looks at him. I'm so sorry. She starts to sob and he hugs her to his chest as tears of his own spill down his cheek. He strokes her hair, each one whispering 'It'll be okay, I promise.'

They're looking through a photo album together, filled with pictures they've taken. He's trying to get her to smile, and for a while she is, but then they get to the picture of the park, and she points to it and looks up at him, shaking her head. Her eyebrows are furrowed in confusion. She doesn't remember doing that. His eyes fill with fear.

He's holding her hair as she throws up in the toilet, clutching the porcelain for dear life. She sobs into it and he rubs her shoulders, kissing her sweaty forehead.

She's lying in bed again, pale and fragile looking. He's spooning her, kissing her neck every now and then. She turns around slowly and kisses him, smiling weakly. It says 'Thank you' and 'I love you' and 'I'm sorry'. She closes her eyes and he kisses her eyelids.

She's in the kitchen cooking, and she's got her color back. She feels better today. He smiles. Maybe she's getting better. He walks into the other room and begins to paint again.

They're looking at the photo album again, and it scares her as she forgets more and more of the pictures. She throws it across the room and pulls her knees to her chest and cries and cries. He sits there, not knowing what to do as he looks at the splayed photo album. He goes back to painting.

He's taking her for a walk, carrying most of her weight so she can enjoy outside. She's skinnier now, and paler too. Her eyes are unfocused, but she seems happy enough.

They're in bed when she starts screaming, holding her head as tearless sobs wrack her body. He's calling 9-1-1. They're in an ambulance and he's holding her hand as they put an oxygen mask over her face. He watches as she's taken away on a gurney, and he stands in front of the emergency room doors, his face scared and sad.

He's sitting in the waiting room, his head bowed and his hands clasped in front of him as if he's praying. The hours pass by, from 4 a.m to 11 a.m.

Finally we see a doctor come up to him with a huge folder, and the man goes with him into a long white hallway. People walk by. Most of them are crying.

They come to a closed door, and the doctor lets the man in, giving him a sad look and a small, sad nod. The man hesitates before stepping inside, shutting the door behind him.

She's lying on a bed in all white. Her knees and feet make little tents in the blankets, but other than that the blankets are flat. She's thinner than he thought. IVs and wires are attached to her body, and when he walks in she's sleeping peacefully. He takes the chair next to her and gently takes her hand, kissing it once, twice, three times before pressing it to his forehead. He's praying with her now, too.

He's staring at her, and she wakes up slowly. She smiles weakly, and a tear slides down her cheek. He's smiling, and he mouths 'Hello'.

She squeezes his hand and coughs. She's so tired. She smiles at him sadly, and another tear falls. Her mouth is covered by an oxygen mask, but he can see her mouth 'Hello' back. Tears are in the man's eyes as he looks at her, then her hand. He shakes his head. 'Don't go', he mouths. 'Don't leave me'.

She's crying now too, she's so tired. 'I love you', she mouths.

Then she smiles the same smile she first gave him, and he flashbacks to it. Her eyes close, slowly, and her hand goes limp in his. He's sobbing and shaking his head no. No. No no no no no, he's saying. The heart monitor goes blank and he's up and out the door, yelling for help, for a doctor, for anyone. A couple of nurses and the doctor rush in and surround her, working on her, but it's too late.

They back away from her and bow their heads, and they leave him alone. He sits in the chair. He cries.

Everything is black and white again, and the man is packing things up into boxes. He puts the boxes in the closet and in cabinets and anywhere he doesn't have to look. He sells all the furniture.

He's sitting on the edge of his bed, his head bowed and his body leaned over as if he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He looks at his alarm clock. It's 10 p.m. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs shakily. As he goes to lay down, he spots one of the paintings he painted in the corner of the room, and as he gets up to put it in the closet, he looks at it, and it's the portrait he painted of her, laying on the couch, smiling at him. He runs his fingers along her painted face, his hands shaky.

He throws on his coat over his pajamas, grabs his easel and paints, and walks out the door. He walks and walks and walks until he gets to a cemetery. He comes to a grave and stares at it. He then sits down and begins to paint.

It's daylight once he finishes. He leaves the painting there, picks up his things, and brushes his fingers against the gravestone before walking away, and although he's sad, the sun is out, there is still colour, though faded, and his shoulders aren't as slumped forward as they used to be.

Author's Note

Thoughts, questions, comments?