15 Minutes

I think you'll even be able to read it in less than 15 minutes, so you might want to give it a try :)

15 Minutes

“15 minutes.”

With words in such a way encouraging, barely audile, mumbled by an old caretaker in overalls and the tendency to contract words and to leave out syllables, he was left in the apartment, the door shutting behind him, leaving him in almost complete darkness, since there were no windows in the corridor.

He felt for the light switch, eventually finding it and turned on the light. It came from a sheer cable dangling from the ceiling. No, his brother had never been into home decoration.

The three guys from Cypress Hill were staring at him from a poster on the opposite wall, a few jackets hung from nails in the wall (smart idea " he considered copying it) a man-size mirror on the wall to his right reflected his own image. The floor was rather dusty; looked as if it hadn't been swept for months. One door to his left, two to his right. There was a smell in the air, he wasn't able to place exactly. A spice, maybe?

He headed for the door to his left. A bed full of stuff scattered all about: Condoms, a book (following a natural urge, he read the title; his brother had been reading A Clockwork Orange during his last days and why do depressed people always have to read depressing literature like that? Why not try The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, or Harry Potter for a change?), the kicker sports magazine, a driver´s license and a lighter. The bed wasn't made.

There was a small table with tobacco crumbs on it and one little plastic bag with the obligatory cannabis plant on it. He was now able to place the sweetish smell quite accurately. There was a cd-rack and following another natural urge, he studied the cds. His brother had been mostly into classic rock: Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, The Doors. Could have been worse.

He moved silently, cautiously, as if not wanting to wake up someone; his steps raising dust that danced in the light coming through the blinds. How much of a person´s life can you take in within 15 minutes, he asked himself. If there ever was a rhetorical question, than this one.

A computer on another small table. A bookshelf, Ikea. It occurred to him that he defined people by the books that they read, the music they listened to and the movie they watched rather than their choice of furniture or clothes. What does it mean that his brother seemed to prefer dark wood rather than lighter wood? What tale was told by that wardrobe, self-made and ragged? And you, wooden chair in front of the desk? Anything to say about the person that used to live here, his brother that he hadn't seen for more than ten years and who was found dead in the bathtub three days ago? No, nothing. But the books; books are telling. They not only contain tales but they also tell tales about their owners. They told him, for instance, that his brother had accompanied Frodo and Sam at their journey to Mordor, they told him, that his brother had made the acquaintance of Mr. Holden Caulfield on his way to adulthood (never really finding it, hopefully) and that he had been through more than 1,000 pages of Stephen King´s It. The cd-collection told him that his brother most likely was smoking dope while Jim Morrison was claiming that we were riders on the storm. The collection of second-hand DVDs told him that his brother most likely still had a soft spot for the old heroes, a almost live-size poster of Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones, crooked smile and fedora on the wall. Had those books and the music changed his brother? At least, they were not able to keep him from taking an overdose of antidepressants, a bottle of whisky and a hot bath.

Where do all these things go? His brother unlikely had made a testament. Will second hand book stores all over Bremen sell ragged Stephen King novels with his brother's name still on them? He decided to stop wasting time and proceeded, this time heading for one of the right doors in the corridor.

It was the kitchen. There was a cupboard with spices (some of them rather extraordinary " kurkuma, whatever that was - he did not know that his brother was into cooking), a table with magazines and a newspaper scattered over it, a worktop and a gas cooker. Again, an peculiar smell; and after a while he was able to place it. A cat´s tray. Did his brother have a cat? Where was it then?

All those familiar brand names, Kellog´s, Nestle, Müller Milch, weirdly out of place in this abandoned apartment; components of the world of the living in a dead place.

There was a balcony attached to the kitchen. He opened the door to the balcony. It was small, littered with cigarette butts. The view from here also wasn't too promising: From the balcony all you could see was a medical centre; it was orange with much glass and he felt observed from within.

It was hard for him to see any meaning in any of this. It was just a not too extraordinary apartment of a depressed mid-thirty male person. That happened to be his older brother. Since he had received the message he had not cried. It was as if some childhood friend had died, someone you barely know anymore. You feel a vague sadness, some echo of a feeling that used to be there but wasn't anymore. With a last look at the cigarette butts he left the balcony. Someone had written something about cigarette butts. Shirley Jackson? Margaret Atwood? Sometimes a cigarette butt is just a cigarette butt.

Next was the bathroom. It was … a bathroom. Small, tubular, in need of some fresh air, polish and a decisive person willing to use it. There was the bathtub where his brother had died. He felt strangely detached from his surroundings, as if he was watching someone watching a bathtub in which his brother had died.

His discovery seemed to be over. He was standing in the corridor, listening to the rain outside.

He turned to the door, the 15 minutes will be over soon. Approaching the door he heard a noise from... the kitchen? The balcony? He turned to the kitchen and listened. There it was again: A muffled cry as if coming from a baby. He entered the balcony and stood motionless. There it was again, this time right next to him. He crouched and looked under the table. A cat: reddish, huge green eyes, staring at him.

For a while they were fixed in that stare and neither moved; sharing the moment the way only humans and animals can. Finally, he reached out his hand. The cat licked it starting to purr softly.

It looked thin and that was no surprise. She must have been without food for a almost a week.

“And who might you be?” he asked the cat, getting a high miaow as an answer.

She came to him and rubbed herself (he had the impression that it might be a her) on his knee, the way cats always do. His brother had had a cat, his brother had used kurkama, and had smoked dope and his time was up; the fifteen minutes must have been over. What else had he been able to find out, if he had more time?

The tears came without him even noticing it. They dripped towards Jonesy (the name seemed fitting -as good as any other; cats don´t care about names) who shied away from them. Tears: his first social accepted reaction towards the death of a brother.

There were knocks on the door. “Time's up.”

Without even thinking about it, he took Jonesy. He opened the front door, searched his pocket, found the 20 Euro note and gave it to the the caretaker. He took it, his mouth standing open, looking at the cat.

“Where did you find that cat?”

He stood in front of the building, in the rain, holding the cat tightly, filling his lungs with cold, fresh air and he knew that at some point he will have to stop doing that, live goes on and all that, but for a while it was okay, the only thing to do.

Reviews

[Elizabeth Ridge]

Great story! The imagery was amazing and I loved that you explained the things we own describe us. There was a couple mistakes. At one point you said "know" when you should've said "knew". In another you said "pour" instead of "purr". Overall, great, well-written story.

[Mister T.]

Interesting story, that's the first thing that came to my mind. Enjoyable anyway :)
Interesting fact - the choice of music actually tells a lot about a person. If you want to become acquainted with someone quickly (let's say in 15 minutes), the first thing you'd like to know is his or her taste in music.
I noticed some minor mistakes while reading:
- "smart idea " he considered copying it": I think the - here was replaced by a ", which often happens when copying and pasting from Word or another text editor to the WritersCafe text editor. You should make it a habit to check whether no dashes have been removed or replaced;
- "There was a smell in the air, he wasn't able to place exactly", "and after a while he was able to place it", "He was now able to place the sweetish smell quite accurately": using 'place' here sounds a little bit off. I'd rather use 'identify' or "put my finger on", but that might depend on personal preference;
- "than this one": 'than' is used for comparisons. Instead, you wanted to say 'if this, then that' so you should use 'then' instead of 'than';
- "..and he knew that at some point he will have to stop doing that": 'will' indicated a present tense, while we're dealing with a past tense throughout the entire story. Therefore, it should be 'would' instead of 'will'.
If you were wondering, I always look for grammar mistakes, it's not because I want to demotivate you or something, I just want my reviews to be helpful. Hopefully they are :)
Anyways, I think this is a pretty interesting story. I'm curious to see some other writings of you :)
Keep up the good work!

[Bobby Garfield]

Thanks for the review and especially for spotting some grammar mistakes :)

[Bobby Garfield]

Oh well, "pour" instead of "purr", that's kind of funny, thanks for pointing that out and thanks for the review!