Life

Frank deals with everything as it manifests itself and comes at him full-force.

Life… It’s made of the happy, the sad, the encouraging, and, coincidentally enough, the impossible. It might be the booze talking, but I figure that that’s when I’m the most honest with myself and everybody else. It seems like, these days, men on the corner of every street know who I am, but look right through me to take a long gander at my inter-most qualities; I feel like they can see directly into my soul. I know that I’ve done some wrong things, I mean, who hasn’t? The worst part about doing poorly in life, or doing the right thing, as they seem to come together these days, is not necessarily living with what I’ve done, but living with the people who can’t accept my condolences and believe that I am truly and completely sorry for my mistakes.

            And as I walk through my valley of the shadow of my own death, I know that nothing matters but everything; every life, the lives that have been taken from me, along with the ones that I’ve taken life away from with my own bare hands. But nothing will be able, stable enough to secure me sufficiently to know what I need to do next or, better yet, how it needs to be done.

…

            The counter is cold and I can hear the stool creaking anxiously underneath me, groaning with the want, no, the need to be rid of me, of my weight, and of the extra weight that I carry everywhere with me on my shoulders. I know its pain because every day I wish that same wish, want that same want, feel that same need: I can’t take the pressure any longer.

“Yeah, I’m going,” I announce to my unholy thrown in order to raise its own awareness of my awareness.

“I’m going.”

My fingernail lightly scrapes against the seamless black marble that is the pub’s bar. I extend my fingers and put all of my weight on the palm of my hand as I make a dire attempt to rise from the ashes of my own self-pity and self-denial. It has been three whole days since the episode at the precinct and I need to begin coping and move on. If there is one thing that I need to do, it is move on.

 

            But suddenly the floor slides out

from under me

and I am left with one

hand grasping desperately for the counter

while one fights to hold my life together. So it begins: my life story, or at least the part that is worth telling. My head slams against the floor followed by my arms and, lastly, my dignity, which now lies shattered on the ground next to me, next to my shattered body. Warm hands grip my leather jacket and I feel everything begin to right itself as I am pulled back up to those treacherous heights.

            “Are you O.K. Frank?” I hear a voice say. It sounds like Tommy. I really like Tommy. Nice man. Two kids, a sweet, intelligent-beyond-belief, gorgeous, successful, dark-haired wife. And a beautiful life… A beautiful life.

            He asks again, and this time, as the haze begins to loosen its grip on my mind, I can make out his deep and concerned stare. I’m not too proud to admit that I need help getting home, nor is Tommy too proud to offer. Tommy… … . . .

Claire?

            And so we begin our trek to my house, the three of us. Nothing like good friends to keep you company when you need it the most. Before I even realize that we have made it through the door of the pub, Tommy is already driving us to the house. He’s such a good friend to myself and… … . . .

Claire?

But she was there!

With her deeply dark hair,

With the moon glistening off of it,

Giving off silver strand after strand,

Only temporary hope can.

And the car comes to a

Stop.

            The door slams shut next to me and I can make out Tommy walking eagerly, hurriedly to my side of the car. It is only when he opens the door that I begin to feel the red oozing down the left side of my face.

                  From the crimson pothole,

                                        created by the impact,       the

                                      on

            left side

         of

                my

                                      face.

Now I can feel myself bouncing up and down as Tommy carries me to the front door and pulls it open. But there’s something different about my house. Or, is this not my house at all? God, my head is pounding and my heart feels like it is trying to pump molasses through my veins. Then, however, I see the angel and know for certain that this is, indeed, not my house. She rushes up to us, like a fierce, cold, determined, strong wind.

“Poor girl,” I say to myself, or to Tommy, as she opens her mouth and nothing intelligible comes out. I can feel Tommy’s chest reverberate and know that he is speaking, but can only make out a sparse arrangement of words:

“Sarah

get some ______.

Frank…

And he_____... … . . .

Claire?

Get

some

gAAaauzZzzz.e… … . . .

Claire?”

            At that point the whiteness of the fog begins to close in around me, offering no condolences. I can see Tommy and Sarah speaking to me and want to tell them I’m fine, not to worry about poor old Frank, and to go make love while they still can, but my vocal chords fail me again. Everything is fine now…

            While I drift through the house, my senses come back. I can suddenly see things clearly and am aware that Tommy is trying desperately to give me C.P.R., tears streaming down his face as Sarah watches from the kitchen table, using it to brace her frail body in between the lurches that it makes when she inhales for a sufficient amount of air to propel the next volley of sobs into the atmosphere like water balloons filled with lead.

            The severity of the situation hits me and I begin to panic. Am I dead? Of course not, because I can see my chest arithmetically rising and falling; but I’m not supposed to see myself from this angle, right? Everything seems out of place. I see Tommy press down on my chest one last time and feel my body lurch up off the floor as I return to myself in a series of coughing fits. When I get there though, everything

goes

hazy

again.

            Tommy and Sarah both smile, look up, and begin asking me a series of questions again, but I can only make out whispers. The only thing that I can do in response is nod, even though I am completely unaware of what I am agreeing to.

Tommy runs away as Sarah cradles my head in her lap.

I love them.

I love them.

I love

…them

… … . . .

. C  a   r   ?

.    l   i   e   ?

… … . . .

            I black out for a second (or an hour?) and come to as they all, including Tommy, rush in with the stretcher. Tommy bends down to help the others pick me up, onto the stretcher, his stethoscope           from his neck. The sharpest pain that I can remember

                                    dangling

from that night came when they lifted my head off of Sarah’s lap. I didn’t want to go, I was safe here… I was comfortable there… I knew the thin line between life and death back there…

            But still, it didn’t matter. No matter how loud I protested, or how loud I seemed to protest, they all continued to wheel me through the door, out onto the front porch,

down                                   ambulance,

       the                            the

          stairs,                into

and down the road. I was starting to panic and could feel the walls breathing in around me and the floor

     f

        a

  l

l    i

       n

   g

      .

            Tommy is still by my side, as is Sarah… … . . . Claire … … . . .

                                ? ??? ? ?            ?? ??? ? ?

They each hold one of my hands and I can see their lips moving rapidly, their eyes closed, and I can see why… They have the matching rosaries that I gave them for Christmas last year. This incessant act goes on for what seems like days. I can feel their tears running down my arms, drenching my shirt with sorrow rather than wetness; and then I begin to cry.

            At this new development they both halt their pleading with my Father and stare at me with bloodshot, grief-stricken eyes. Both try to hug me simultaneously as best as they can but stop when I start to shake slightly and let out a tiny

chuckle.

Tommy is the first one to look me in the eyes, quickly followed by Sarah, both of them attempting to laugh along with me as best as they can. None of them should have to go through this, I think to myself. The pain, the suffering, the… … . . .   . . .   .   .   .

Claire?

            Right at that moment is when I loose it again. Everything is capped in a thick grey fog and nothing makes sense.

Is the earth round?

Is space real?

                       Am I real?

And if I am, who am I to say that I am?

            Again I am walking on that sturdy boardwalk without a care in the world, the fog held at bay for the time being. We stroll down the long plank-looking structure, not wanting to reach the end, but at the same time knowing that it is inevitable. There is a lot of talking and even more laughing as that edge grows ever so close. We talk about our parents, our family, our friends, our pets, our good times, our bad times, our mistakes, our successes, our goals. But everything that we talked about, even if we were more engaged in each other than we already were, could not have braced us for the kiss that was to happen next, or for the dates, the years, the nights, the pleasures, the pains, and, most of all, the experiences that we would share. Everything seemed as if it were one long, drawn out fairy tale that had no choice but to cease to exist in nothing but a “happily ever

after.”

But the strangest thing happened: life. No matter how hard we tried, it all came back to that and no matter how hard we tried, the lack of it left her gone, inside and out, while it solely left me gone inside. That’s why the booze would make the rain sing and bells cry when it was time to bring myself back to reality. The black suits, the dark dresses, the emptiness, yet the complete presence of color, all threaded into the fabric as if it knew well enough that one day it would be totally encumbered by it and overwhelmed in the attempt to escape from it’s predetermined fate of nothing but a bottomless end, a fruitless end that is to end in a sack of nothing but lack of meaning, presence, or both… or so I thought. I discovered that within the black, if I looked hard enough and tried hard enough that nothing was everything, and that, in turn, everything was something worth holding on to. Which brings me back to tonight, to the celebration that was to announce the simple fact that I had become a pioneer and an explorer of that nothing that had so suddenly manifested itself into a something so profound that I not only wanted to live, but needed to live, needed to tell my story and warn all others about the nothingness and teach them how to turn it into something worth fighting for; worth dying for.

… … . . .   . . .   .  .  .   .  .  . C…l… .a … … . .i … … . . .r.e…………… … … …

 

            So reality hit me again and was successful in creating a bigger crater than the bar could, this time with a sea of cement molded into sidewalk. The stretcher came crashing down, and with it, I did as well. I should have seen it coming.

I                    have               that                  how                  was

   should         known                 this       was        it                       meant

                                           to

              end.

            They flipped me over and I could feel the red gushing from my forehead now, dripping down I(my)N(eyes)TO. Again, Tommy and Sarah ran to my side and immediately began fighting for my honor with words shaped like knives and fists firing like guns. Couldn’t these baboons see that I was dying? Couldn’t they smell the ginger and lilac infused incense that I could, pouring out of the canteen that was swung by none other than my ___i__? They should have know that

this was first last place

that I was going to see

at the end.

            But how were they to understand,

            That the soul must have room to grow,

            And once every circumstance,

            Will come together as the bell tolls.

 

Ding……

         (Claire.)

Dong……

 

And just like that Everything snaps back into focus. I know now that nothing else matters but love and I know that love, here on earth, is Tommy and Sarah. I tell them so and feel the pain of loss as both of them join hands with one another and with myself, only to rest their heads face-down on my chest. I feel a sudden sorrow that is overwhelming and begin to cry in red. Then, out of nowhere, I feel a sudden pop and make a note to myself that everything feels utterly different. But why make a note when I need to know now? But what if I don’t need to know now? Because everything that I’ve ever wanted, everything that I’ve ever dreamed about, everything that I have ever needed is standing right before me again. Life: that long boardwalk. And what is that standing at the end? I draw closer once again as I had before and realize that I am, yet again, staring into the green pale eyes of my fate… of… … . . . ……………………………………………………………………………………..

Red.

 

Author's Note

I had been fumbling with this idea for a while and though it has manifested itself in a way that I had not expected at first, I am very happy with it: my first complete short story! :)
I had to tweak the format of the story a little bit because some of the concepts weren't fitting on the page correctly. So, it is basically right, but still looks a little different than it should.

Reviews

[Kyle Romano]

thanks dan. that was my goal. to make you stop, think, and pay attention to what's going on. i love it and do want to look into getting it published somehow.

[dmack901]

This is really amazing. It's truly worthy of publication in my opinion. While altered formatting has become almost cliche, especially in light of the past couple books we've read, I feel that your usage was just about perfect. It distracted me, I had to take my time to read it, and as I assume it intended, it slowed the story down, it slowed the flow of words into my brain and in cases interrupted it, thus establishing an accurate(or at least believably authentic) portrayal of death/life/your last moments.

Simply amazing.

[Tonya Wilson]

Well, the start of the story had some strong points, however, with any short story, their should be a beginning , middle and a end. I got lost once the pages started looking different. Once you format the story correctly, then you may have a strong piece of work here, because you have a strong voice in this story.

[Vonnette]

Congratulations for completing your first short story. I had a slightly difficult time following. It was however, powerful. The love Frank feels for his friends. The love he feel for his lost Claire. Good job. I hope to see more.