Short story- untitled

[Kaimani]

January 1st 2000 (0907hrs)

It was fitting that the last time would be the one to go without any mistakes. Forty five seconds it took him. A personal best.

Sweat seeped through the blindfold it’d taken the first few seconds to put on. It was thick and slimy between the plastic chair he was standing on and the soles of his feet and the hand cuffs holding his hands behind him felt as if they were sucking all warmth from his wrists. An overwhelming heat radiated from the small of his back upwards.

Everything was a heavy shade of quiet. Everything but, if you asked him, the fast, rhythmic, deliberate tap of his vein against the rope around his neck.

~~~~

January 1st 2000(0907hrs)

 

The room lurched forward and upwards when she opened her eyes. She held onto her sheets as Jagged edged pulses of pain between her eyes reminded her of the fifteen and more cocktails more than sensible downed. Just as the first flood of flashbacks rushed her the room staggered again, this time downwards and to the left. Her stomach heaved. She bumbled out of bed and rushed to the bathroom swallowing back what vomit had made it into her mouth. It tasted green.

Face hovering above the toilet seat she wiped her chin and waited for the third round of throwing up to start. Just then it came to her that there was someone else in the bedroom. Round three.

the last of the green stuff hit the now green, and yellow, toilet water. she kept her head above the seat, and turned her head slightly. A half naked guy was sitting on the edge of the bed. Flashback to the countdown at midnight. Spotting him among the crowd and tumbling across to him.

Four.

‘Hey tomato juice guy.’

Three.

Him leaning forward to her.

Two.

Her puckering up.

One.

Happy New Year.

She winced. The room and her stomach were getting annoyingly fond of somersaulting.

Round four.

~~~~

January 1st 2000(0910hrs)

You couldn’t say he was serene, or resigned. Not even numb. He was still. That was all you could say. Still. What thoughts tried to reach him got lost in the haze of whisky he’d spend the whole night drinking. And the residual buzz from the ounce and more of weed consumed between swigs of whisky caught any that made it through. He felt strangely proud. Everything that could have been attended to had been sorted in the three months he’d holed himself in that motel. The three months when his only outside connection had been the cleaner girl with sad eyes, the delivery guy and his laptop.

He took short measured breaths through his nose and steadied himself. Didn’t want to hurt himself after all. It was time to release the handcuff key. There would be no going back then.

He dropped it.

~~~~

January 1st 2000(0918hrs)

“Did we?” she shouted from the bathroom as she finished brushing her teeth. Kind of wished he had left before she woke up. Was kind of glad he hadn’t.

“No we didn’t.” He handed her a coffee as she walked back into the bedroom. She didn’t look him in the eye. This was not how she wanted their first meeting to go.

“No tomato juice?” she took a sip, “Don’t worry, I’m not stalking you. You always have tomato juice at the gym.”

“Wondered why you called me tomato-juice-guy all night. Name’s Chabaka.” He gave her his hand.

She took it. “I’m frank. Not Francine, or Frankie. Just Frank.”

“Ok, just Frank. Nice to meet you.”

~~~~

January 1st 2000(0923hrs)

The key hit the laminate floor with a muffled ping. It was in that moment-the space between the sound hitting his ears and his ears telling his brain they had had been hit-the shift happened. The whisky and weed drained from him and everything went into fast forward. His big ****-you to the world just felt like a child’s tantrum now. Not gallant. Not romantically tragic. Not any of the thousand other things he had imagined on those dark nights as he tapped away letters to not-so-loved ones on his laptop. The videos saved on that computer. The e mails saved on auto-send. The dissolved assets and donations to charity...it all seemed hollow. Worse. It all felt petulant, distinctly self indulgent, and spoilt. The letter on the bed saying, simply, ‘frank’ seemed especially harsh. The letter giving her-a stranger who’s name he’d only learned a day earlier- the responsibility to press ‘send’ on the computer. And that he’d manipulated her to agree to come to work on New Year’s Day just so she could find him...

Short sharp breaths. Humming. Blinking very fast under the blindfold. Grinding his teeth. Any and every thing, to stop him concentrating on the rope against pulsing vein. Breathe. That’s all he wanted to do. Not so much to carry on living but just not to die. To hold that last breath as long as he could. Final act of defiance, as it were. Refusing to let a chest he knew would rise just to fall again stop.

Stranger still, of all the thoughts in his head at that time one loomed largest. It was the simple and sudden realisation of the cruelty of timing him death so Frank would find him no more than a few minutes after she could have saved him. It was that, not the faces, the lost chances and the rapidly dwindling range and number of possible futures that could attach themselves to his present that forced him to carry on.

~~~~

January 1st 2000(0929hrs)

“Yeah, my dad died about a year ago.” Frank shrugged. “He hung himself, left me this house and a motel on the highway. Talking of which I need to go there for a bit.”

“Working on New Year’s Day?” he looked at her, “you don’t need to drive around the block to get rid of me.”

“No, no!” She realised she’d, according to the rules of the game, seemed too eager. She straightened her face. “I only have the one customer there at the moment, I just feel like I should check in on him. You know, change a plastic bin, towel or something. Make sure he’s ok. No one should be alone on New year’s Day.’

Just then the phone rang. Her face went a sudden bright red and she frowned before she caught herself.

‘Are you ok?’

‘Yeah yeah’. She took the phone off the hook. ‘Some weirdo has been calling me and playing songs.’ She looked over at him and said, ‘anyway, I’ll have to go. Are you doing anything later?’

‘I have people at the phone company.’ He put the phone back on the receiver. ‘I’ll get them to trace it.’

Just then the phone rang again.

“hello.” He said into it. He looked at Frank. “It’s Sting, that ‘every move you make, every step you take I will be watching you’ song.”

Frank slumped back on the bed. “Maybe I’ll wait a while before I go to the motel.”

~~~~

Janaury 1st 2000(0932hrs)

Bitch! Now she was getting someone else to answer the phone! A man! That was it. She needed to be taught a lesson.

Had the man been born able to speak he would have sworn. But he hadn’t. So he couldn’t. So he didn’t. So he picked up the phone and stereo and smashed them against the wall. Then ran head first into that same wall. The whore! He slammed his head on the wall again. And again. And again...

~~~~~

Janaury 1st2000(0941hrs)

He steadied his feet on the plastic chair. She would be coming around in half an hour tops. She would cut him down and live, ever after, knowing she’d saved someone. Maybe that would take away that sadness that seemed so comfortable in her eyes. And maybe she wouldn’t be so hung over all the time. That he was naked wouldn’t be such a big deal, she’d walked in on him before. He would thank her for saving his life. She would tell him things were never as bad as they seemed. That life should be cherished. He would apologize, and thank her again, and leave.

He had the money. Could buy a boat, sail out to sea and jump off somewhere where no one would ever find him. Had his mouth not been taped shut he would have smiled. Maybe even scolded himself for three months wasted.

All he had to do was stand still till she came in.

She would cut him down.

He would thank her...and go do it right somewhere else.

~~~~

Janauary1st 2000(1146hrs)

“Can I help you?” Chabaka asked the guy at the door. There was something off about this guy. The kind of something off that made you want to sit behind him on the bus, and, under no circumstances, him behind you. His face looked like someone had been using it for batting practice, or he’d head butted a train, or wall. He just stared.

~~~~

Janaury 1st 2000(1146hrs)

He stared at the asshole in the shorts and t shirt. How dare he stand there blocking the entrance like he owned the place? The bitch was probably upstairs, washing his filth from between her legs. Well, today would be the last. This jerk standing at the door would die quickly. The bitch. The bitch. She would beg for death by the end.

He pulled the knife out.

~~~~

January 1st2000(1158hrs)

Where was she? His legs burnt and trembled. the rope was beginning to dig into his neck and restrict blood supply to his brain. He lifted his left leg to rest it. His right leg buckled. The chair flew across the room. His neck didn’t snap. Dumb luck. Maybe. Maybe not. His legs jerked. The rope burnt deeper. All blood supply to his brain stopped.

Just then... as the room, though he couldn’t see it, began to spin...footsteps... down the hall.

~~~~

January 1st 2000(1147hrs)

Chabaka jumped out of the way just in time to avoid the knife. Crazy-guy-with-a-broken-face swayed and fell into the house. He didn’t say anything, just lunged back at his quarry. This time Chabaka was ready. In that brief moment when of all the possible tomorrows that could have followed the episode unfolding one included, without dilution, total oblivion and nothingness he affirmed life.

Crazy guy didn’t even realise he’d missed again.

He didn’t even realise he’d lost his knife.

Didn’t even feel hands wrap around his neck.

He didn’t even feel his neck snap.

~~~~

January 1st2000(1203hrs)

“Hello.”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Me, who?”

“Chab-.”

“Oh, hey. Listen, I’ve just arrived at the motel. Just walking to room 33 now. What’s up?”

“Hey, the guy with the calls, I think I’ve found him. Well, he found me.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s dead. I’ve called the cops. Waiting for them now.”

She was just about to open room 33 but stopped and turned around. “Oh, my god. Where are you? Are you ok?”

“I’m fine. I’m at your house still.”

“Stay there, I’ll be ten minutes.”

She rushed to her car.

~~~~

January1st2000(1206hrs)

Vomit crashed against the roof of his mouth. No place to go. It dammed in his throat and came out through his nose in squirts and chunks. A familiar warm streak streamed down the front of his left leg. An unfamiliar one-thicker, slower-wormed its way down the back of his right leg.

This was it then.

This was how the world would find him.

[Becky86]

I love it, especially the time line, very cinematic.

[Kaimani]

thanks. trying to make it more upbeat. and starting to think the mute stalker guy feels forced. but thanks for the feedback.

[Ron Blanco]

I love it, especially the time line, very cinematic.

 

I agree. Great film sequence. How do you achieve that K? Is it through short sharp sentences? Let's have a go...

 

Exciting writing K. Rattles along. Asking myself questions right from the start. A story about an escapologist? Not so. Tension builds. Setting the scene for drama. The characters gradually form, the story takes shape, the anticipation mounts. Frank? Confused by the male name. A stalker appears, missed him first time through, adds another dimension. "face ... used for batting practice". Big laugh. Then confrontation. And more vomit, too much vomit? The end. Left wondering. Must read again, fill in the gaps, explore other layers.

 

Riveting.

[Kaimani]

thanks guys. it was an exercise in thrift, i guess, you could say, with words. my natural instinct is to 'waffle' sometimes. so wanted to see if i could tell a story in as few words as possible.

glad you liked.