Allowing Redemption

This man is not unknown, he is not invisible. He believes the world is alive in hating him. Conflicted with OCD and depression, as well as mental instability because of his past.

 

                It was not odd for him to be talking to his furniture.  Often he would sit down next to a small object and observe it as if a person sat in front of him.  Obtrusive and self-centered, he believed the world revolved around him.  This time it was not a unanimated object that intimidated him.  It was the slender, metal toaster on the counter ledge in the small dark kitchen.   

                Today he stared at it, the sun was about to set and no lights were on in the house.  He believed they darkened his presence.  Somehow his intricate mind narrated unnatural light as stealing energy from him.  Thus he often lived in the dark. 

                The toaster was shining from the distant glow that entered through the small window to the west.  His toast was burning; he could smell the bread crisping.  The oats and sesame seeds that had fallen indefinitely into the interior of the toaster were burning.  And there was nothing he could do about it.  He did not wish to eat burned toast.  In fact he preferred it soft, only warm enough to melt the butter.  However the day before when his mother visited routinely to pester him about the contents of his fridge she had set the temperature higher, and he had forgotten.  Now it was too late, he must let the toaster continue until it ended on its own.  He was incompetent when it came to changing the way things were.  It was impossible.  He would eat the burnt toast. 

                A minute later the toaster clicked and the orange glow it emitted softened.  He watched as the dark toast arose from its interior.  He snickered at the toaster, blaming it for his bad memory.  He reached for a small plate in the cabinet above his head.  Absentmindedly he grabbed the blue one with the simple sunflower, the plate he had found while on vacation in Mexico a few years ago.  The man had sold it to him for half the price.  But no, he returned it quickly, today was Monday, he could only use black plates today.  Seeing how the sunflower signified happiness and had some connection to religion through native societies it was used only on Sundays.  He was not religious, but he had to follow this rule anyways.  He reached underneath the pile of plates for the one on the bottom.  Mondays he used the black plate.  A cheap; plastic; chipped black plate.  His father had died on a Monday.

                He thanked the toaster with a slight drawl.  He was mad, part of him knew it was his fault.  He would not blame his mother.  He was not allowed.

                He took a spoon and drew some butter from the plastic package, and spread it across his toast.  He reached under into the drawer and withdrew three carrots from a small plastic bag.  He glanced at the interior of his fridge.  Only a few items were inside of it.  Some lettuce, and the bag of carrots.  A bag of toast, only a few pieces left.  Butter, apples, and a bottle of red wine.  He did not drink often, the wine was from nearly a year ago.  The doctors told him it would complicate the symptoms from his medication.  However this was not why he did not drink.

                He slowly walked to the living room, he went along the wall, as close as he could.  Slowly he set the plate onto the small coffee table on the left of the couch.  He looked at the sunken red couch in the corner.  He loathed this couch.  He would never sit in it.  But he had to, it was his couch.  He had no choice. 

                He slowly slat down.  Clicking his tongue repeatedly, afraid of what might happen.  Last night when he sat down the couch had clicked back, the springs adjusting to his light weight.  But tonight, it made no sound, as if it was waiting for him to participate in reaction.  He reached for the remote, and turned on the TV.  Instantly the sound disabled him.  A loud alarm was sounding.  He clicked it off as fast as he could.  Then repeated, he must do it three times.

                He did not wish to be scared.  In fact, noise was the worst, the TV was blaming him for what had happened on this couch.  He knew that, and therefore he must repeat it three times.  So that perhaps next time, it would forgive him.  It was not his fault; that was what the therapist had said.  It was not his fault. 

                The fourth time he changed the channel before the volume had been turned on.  It went to the news and he quickly changed it again.  The news must wait for 9 PM.  It was still too early. 

                The next channel was an English sitcom.  He left it there.  He reached for his plate and planted it on his legs.  He lifted the toast and took a small bite.  It was disgusting and tasted of ashes.  Yet he ate it all.  Next he ate the carrots.  One small bite at a time, until they were all gone.  He was uninterested in the TV.  But it requested to be on, and thus it was.  When he finished he turned off the TV and returned to the now dark kitchen.  He rinsed it in the sink and placed it all the way back in the dishwasher.

                Now he would go to bed.  It was early.  But there was nothing left for him today.  He did not wish to watch the news.  And it was to dark to do anything else.  He went across the hall and entered the small bedroom.  He changed into his grey pajamas.  Entered the bathroom and slowly brushed his teeth.  Relieved himself, and went to bed.

Author's Note

Should this be a short story that ends without conclusion? A longer possible book? A beggining to a completely different story, perhaps as a movie, or a book someone is reading, or someone that leads elsewhere?