Be kind. Please rewind. Always words of wisdom, once. Anyway, I hope you enjoy today's post. Feel free to express your thoughts and opinions in the comments below.
Pen in hand with moonlight streaming through the dirty
window, I should have been writing the next great masterpiece. Instead, I
looked around for some hint of the idea that had haunted me and pulled me from
sleep. The dark mahogany desk before me held piles of college ruled paper on
one side and an old typewriter with a single yellowed page still awaiting more
words on the other. Next to the typewriter, a large stack of equally yellowed
pages gathered dust. I only glanced at them for a moment before looking back to
my pile pages with empty lines and the ballpoint pen gripped tightly in my
hand.
Then my attention wandered from object to object in the
room. I glanced at the wall lined with bookshelves. Books filled every inch of
each shelf, some piled horizontally across the others to make room. The words I
needed eluded me, as they never had those who penned those volumes. My eyes
wandered to the glass globe overhead with one single bulb offering pale light.
As I turned my head this way and that, I expected to see inspiration floating
in the window or splashed across the walls. Instead I saw only my own washed
out reflection and peeling paint. As words continued to elude my pen, a
familiar chill settled about my shoulders.
“Are you ready to listen, my son?” A deep voice echoed in
soft tones.
“You aren’t here.” I whispered through gritted teeth.
“You know you are starting to look like me, but you’ll never
be what I was.” A shadowy form appeared at my right hand before the typewriter.
“You aren’t here.” I whispered more fiercely.
“You should put down that pen and get a real job. You’re no
writer.”
“You aren’t here.” The last word slurred as I slowly raised
my head to watch the gauzy form take on familiar features.
“But I am, and I will be every time you pick up that pen.” Misty
eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled down at me.
I gazed up at him for a moment before placing the pen on the
desk and offering a challenge. “If I am no writer, what am I?”
He reached out an opaque hand toward the pen. His smile
slipped as his fingers disappeared into the desk. He shook his head and
returned his attention to me.
“You are a grunt, my son.”
“A grunt?”
“Yes. You work hard with your body, not your mind.”
I snorted at this. “I don’t need to work at all. The
investments you left me…”
“…will keep you fed, but you will become bored quickly and
that is dangerous.”
“How so?”
“I became bored…” As he spoke, his eyes disappeared into a
rotting face.
A cloudy noose hovered over his head. He reached up with a
skeletal hand to pull it over his head. Thinning lips pulled back into a horrid
grimace. As the noose began to tighten, I leaned over the round metal trashcan
beside the desk. As I heaved again and again, my mind wandered to a day twenty
years in my past.
~~
I stepped off the school bus into a cold autumn afternoon.
As the long, yellow vehicle picked up speed and disappeared down the narrow
road, I raced down the long driveway toward my house. My footsteps slowed as I
turned the corner and the house came into view. A line of emergency vehicles
blocked the front door of the house. An ambulance broke away from the lineup
toward the main road.
My mother stood weeping beside one of the police cruisers.
Bathed in the glow of alternating red and blue, she pressed a handkerchief to her
face as an officer offered what little comfort he could with a hand on each of
her shoulders. As one of the officers noticed me, he leaned in to speak to my
mother, nodding his head toward me.
She turned to face me, crouching down to my height. Outstretched
arms reached toward me.
I stepped toward her tentatively. “What’s going on, mom?”
She shook her head, shaking tears from her eyes.
“Mom?” As I spoke, she pulled me into her arms.
“Samuel, we can’t go inside right now.”
She didn’t tell me why. It took three days before she could
gather the strength to tell me that my father had died. She never told me how.
I had never asked, but now that question burned through my brain as I struggled
not to look back up at his hazy form.
~~
My jaw dropped with the realization. “You…”
My head slowly tilted toward him. I sighed with relief to
see that the noose had disappeared. He nodded as his eyes became whole again
and the flesh of his face filled out. As tears filled his eyes, he offered me a
tentative smile.
“Why wouldn’t mom…”
“I can’t speak for your mother just as she couldn’t speak
for me. I still fear she died thinking I took my life because of her.”
“Why did you?” My voice gained strength as indignation
filled me.
“I didn’t mean to kill myself. I just got bored and I
wondered what a noose would really feel like.” He paused to gesture toward the
yellowed pages. “Did you even read my last novel?”
“I couldn’t.” I looked away from him.
“I wanted the ending to be authentic. Sadly, it was my end
that was authentic. Once I had the noose tied, I stepped up on a chair and
slipped it around my neck. I just meant to lean forward and get a feel for it,
but the noose tightened and I panicked, kicked the chair right out from under
me.” He paused to laugh, a long rasping laugh.
“But…” I couldn’t find the words to voice the thoughts in my
head.
“You don’t want my life. Just remember that.” He offered.
“So make a choice…”
“…not to write.” I finished his sentence.
He nodded. “You understand?”
“Yes.” I nodded slowly.
“Don’t let yourself get bored, my son, or you may find
yourself looking for excitement at the end of a rope.” He disappeared except
for his smile, gleaming teeth that slowly faded as my mind reeled.
