Decrepit

His life had seemed to go by so fast. One day he was a lonely bachelor in a tiny apartment, finding comfort only in the intoxicating glass bottles littering his fridge and floor. The next moment he awoke one morning lying in bed next to his wife, she was so calm and beautiful when she was sleeping. So suddenly it seemed, he arrived home from his hectic job finding all of her things gone. The only thing she left was a message on the answering machine.

He opens the door and walks in, hoping to see his wife watching TV, but she isn’t there, her jacket, usually draped across the back of the chair, gone. He walks further on into the apartment. The closet is almost empty, and everything has disappeared besides his few shirts and ties he never wears. His chest pumping hard and warm beneath his work shirt, he goes into the kitchen to find the red light blinking slowly on the answering machine. Cautiously he pushes a button. That pretty voice is the first thing he wants to hear, but it turns out to be the last thing he wants her to say.
“Baby, it’s just not going to work with us . . . ‘click”

He was shocked, like anyone would be, but he should have seen it coming. The thought had crossed his mind that she would find someone else, but he didn’t want to think it would really ever happen.

His life had changed a lot throughout the years, but this time it was different. He went back to his miserable self for a short period while his brain was screaming, “What have I done?” He needed to see her again, one last time before he died.

All those complicated days of wondering what she was really thinking. He heard what was coming from her mouth, but he could never figure out what she said through those eyes.

Her sweet voice turned vicious. His vision blurred and his mind dumb from the alcohol.

“Look at you! Look at all of this! You’re a fucking drunk.” The slap across his cheek he feels before he sees it coming. Her blurred eyes seem red and blazing.

“Come on honey, it was just a couple drinks with some buddies from work.” The slurred speech comes slowly from his lips.

Her eyes are fiery slits. They pierce through him. “Well don’t come around here after you have ‘a couple drinks.’”

“What have I done?”

More than thirty years had passed since he was abandoned by his last ditch effort to find something to live for. He now wanders the strange streets of yet another new town. Still searching for her, he wants to tell her something.

After he is done for the night at his new job, he checks his pockets before hailing a cab. He doesn’t want to walk the few miles in the rain to his motel room. A taxi pulls up. He gets in and tells the driver where to take him. Rain beats on the roof and streaks across the windows as street lights pass slowly.

Back at his grungy room, he smells the stench of old cigarettes seems to emit from everything. He turns on the TV and goes to the bathroom. The broken faucet never really turns off; it always drips water methodically. The mirror has a crack from one corner to the other. When he looks into it, he sees two broken pieces of himself reflected there.

“How was work?” one side said.

“Do you care?”

“Maybe you should get out,”

“Get out where?”

“Anywhere. Maybe we should leave.”

“Again?”

“Yeah, your new job doesn’t pay very well.”

“It’s enough. Besides, we just got here,” he argues. “I’m going to check out the local bars.”

He steps out into the rain again. At this time of night, it is both comforting and unnerving. Streams of cold rain are running through the broken and rough concrete. Dirty water flows through the gutters along the streets. Calmly walking through all this, he looks for a bright neon flicker to welcome him in. Entering the smoky room he sees a few businessmen in suits sit drinking. He sits at one of the stools at the corner of the bar. He orders his drink and drains it slowly. Hours pass, and the bartender gives the last call before he closes for the night. The man is the only one left when he finishes his last, and leaves.

Arriving back at the room, he fumbles the keys with his drunken hands. He opens the door and stumbles into the room. He turns on the lamp by the bed and begins packing.

The morning after a long night at the bar, he gets up despite his headache. With all his things packed, he gathers his bags and locks the door behind him. Walking through the motel parking lot, he soon finds another broken body at his feet.

“What have I done?”

His drunken rage overcomes him. Seething and furious, teeth clenched, his knife is out in a moment. His oppressor feels a flash of pain as a knife is thrust into the back of his neck. With the metal point barely protruding from his adam’s apple, he goes limp, falling to the asphalt. The killer finds the keys and opens the door of the victim’s car. He gets in, lights a cigarette, and puts it into gear. Driving off, leaving the corpse behind him for someone else to deal with, the late night streetlights are dizzying to his drunken eyes. To a paranoid mind, every man silhouetted against light is a cop about to find him; every car is the police squad following him. Another night of sweat and nicotine.

Driving on through the early morning, he nervously takes drags from his cigarette. Morning turns to night, and he is still driving. The headlights push into the night as the asphalt rushes under the hood. The whir of the gears and the drumming of the pistons play a lullaby. He keeps telling himself that he is wide-awake, staring at the fuzzy edge where the headlights diminish into the darkness. The wheels hum along the pavement and thump over the cracks methodically. Gas spurts from the fuel injectors and exhaust pumps out toxic fumes. With the scream of the belts spinning and twisting, he pulls a cigarette out of its box and lights it. Taking a drag, the warm glow reflects from the windshield as he inhales.

He arrives at a gas station close to his destination to fill up on fuel and ask where the closest motel is. He stops at a bar on his way to his new room. Bringing back the alcohol, he sets it on the table in his room. He then goes into the bathroom.

“We’re here.”

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“I just want to talk to her. I need to tell her something.”

“Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Now.”

He lounges around and drinks for a while before he walks outside, gets into his car, and drives off. The early morning darkness seems to push in on him as he follows through on his task. Soon he arrives at his destination. Still early morning, he drives up, walks to the front door and knocks. He stands waiting for the door to open. Her boyfriend answers the door in his boxers and bathrobe. Without warning he receives a knife blade to the hilt and out, through the bottom of his jaw. “I want to tell her something… I just want to tell her something.” He mumbles quickly, almost inaudibly. He left the body lying there, left the door open and passed through the rest of the house. He comes to the bedroom door and looks in to the dark room. He whispers, “I just want to tell her something.” She lies there, motionless as her former boyfriend; she was always so calm when she sleeps. He walks slowly over to her side of the bed. Before he wakes her, he wipes the blood from his hands and knife, then moves in closer and gently nudges her. As she awakes, her sleepy eyes don’t recognize the face, but do see that it isn’t a familiar boyfriend’s face telling her that the coffee is ready.

“I wanted to tell you something. I needed to let you know.”

“What? Who are you?” Her eyes flash frantically trying to find her boyfriend for protection.

“Baby, it’s just not going to work with us.” Immediately he raises his blade, she raises her arms to deflect the assailant, but it is no use. His drunken rage is far too powerful for her pretty arms.

As a parting gift she has received a knife, shoved through the forehead. Her eyes are blank, staring from her skull to nothing. Mouth slack and hanging open seeming to silently say, “What have you done?”

He walks, blank-faced, back out the front door, stepping over the boyfriends body. He opens the door to his car, gets in, and drives off back to his room. When he gets there, sits down for a while and relaxes with a few more drinks. He then goes into the bathroom to take his daily medication. He opens the medicine cabinet and reaches for a bottle of pills.

“What have you done?”

The bottle is opened. A pill taken. Then another. More and more. He is choking them down now. Grasping for another bottle, he pops the lid. Groping for another, another. Taking bottles out, pushing pills in. Choking, swallowing, gasping. More bottles, more pills, anything. More more more.

Then, he stops. Bottles are strewn across the counter, in the sink, on the floor. Pills, tablets and capsules a mess around him.

The room starts spinning. His eyes are wide open, darting back and forth. He’s cold. Shivering, shaking, with a shudder he falls to his knees. He’s hot, burning, sweating. His heart is pounding its last against his chest. It hurts. Blood rushes through his veins, pushing pounding rushing. He feels like he’s going to burst. Closing his eyes. Slumps to the floor. Face pressed against the dirty linoleum, to be found days later by the landlord or someone, under the yellow-orange glow of the bathroom lights.