fiction

He wasn't a particularly conscientious fellow, but he realized he had perhaps acted improperly when he could not successfully read a page from his novel without unintentionally replaying the events in his mind. Nobody knew about her, anyway, so it wasn't veritably a difficult issue to ignore. He could live the rest of his week as though nothing atypical had happened, which is how he had planned to do it, all along.

But it was the 11th hour, and he was alone in his house, having tea by the fire when the voices started to interrupt Mister Hemingway's. This was when the heaviness suppressed in his sternum crept and clawed it's way out; when the back of his dark heart became the foreground of his consciousness. It happened so slowly, so inching and creepy that he had almost reached the end of the story before realizing he hadn't in fact been reading at all, but listening to the voices, and watching the events unfold like clips of a movie. Random flashes, slowly becoming more prominent than the dream world of The Old Man And The Sea, like static from another channel superimposed over the one you're trying to watch, before it finally becomes the only thing you can see. His white knuckles and the Cuban fisherman; her salty tears came from the ocean. You did not do so badly for something so worthless, he said to his left hand. But there was a moment when I could not find you. Glass shattered, her futile pleadings, his resentment incarnated in his permanent sneer. Flashes. Removed. Watching it unfold between the font on the pages, as though it were another man, another woman, a familiar neighbor or a character on t.v., instead of her.

He shivered violently, as though waking from a dream. He craned his stiff neck toward the fireplace that stomached only embers. "Goddamnit," he whispered. His coughing voice broke the silence of his cabin, and he smirked as he recalled Genesis 1:3. He put down the paperback, and brought his now cold, over steeped mug of tea into the kitchen, turning on lights in each room on the way. When had it gotten dark? He wondered. The still semi-full kettle remained on the burner as he lit the gas stove, taking care to douse the match before disposing of the charcoal stick. She had taught him that. Douse the lit match, like spitting on a cigarette butt before tossing it. She had quit smoking, too. For him. For He spoke, and it was done; He commanded, and it stood fast. For Him. These were some of her last words. For you, she said. It's all for you. He had never seen her cry before that night. He had heard her weep before, in the dark, in bed, when she thought he was asleep. Or maybe she knew, passive aggressive bitch that she was probably did know. He had resented it before, before that night -- their last -- he had realized her big, blue eyes turned beautifully red, the passion behind them, the pink in her nose and the shimmer on her cheeks, she was electrified, and lovely. Beautiful. Begging him. Pleading. Trying to save her life, in his. He was fortunate to be able to tune her out, to better enjoy that picture, to be gazed upon in his mind forever. The kettle's whistle impatiently rose from quiet to loud -- he realized again he had granted her the power of his attention. Methodically, he removed the kettle from the ignited burner to the dead one, taking pleasure in eliminating the gas, and poured the hot water on the wet bag of leaves, releasing other worlds of aroma and pleasure.

The truly terrible thing about it was, he knew that what he did was wrong. He knew when he planned it. When he executed the plan, he even acknowledged his awareness to her as she dared challenge him. Yes, I know, he had said. Repeating mistakes. Perpetuating the bad. She hadn't expected him to realize the connection, the inheritance of habit, doing unto others what you suffered at the hands of another. She was dumbfounded, and even abruptly stopped crying as he was saying it. How could you? Intentionally? Accept it? The truth knocked the wind out of her. She didn't know how to play a game when the other played by different rules. He had always prided himself in being an honest guy. Her cliches annoyed him. It's not my fault you didn't ask the right questions, he said. In all honesty. Truth be told. Truly, madly, deeply. She hadn't deserved what he had to give, but it was out of his hands. Like watching a movie. Someone else. This is not my life. The teacup was full to the rim but too hot to drink, causing him to move with the intent of a tightrope walker back to his easychair. The silence was deafening, as he stared with each step at the trembling tension that threatened to break the water's surface. He could feel his body harden at the potential burns he would suffer with one, false, step.

Once in his chair, he looked at the dying fireplace. The smoking hot mug at his side, he settled in for the fight to finish. He would finish. You are killing me, fish, the old man though. But you have a right to. Never have I seen a greater, or more beautiful, or calmer or more noble thing than you... he paused. Silence. No static, no pain where there should be none. Just the dying fire, the steaming cup of tea. Come on and kill me. I do not care who kills who. Everything in it's place. You must keep your head clear. Keep your head clear and know how to suffer like a man. {grin}