My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

I formulate infinity stored deep inside of me…

Mar 5

Telling a story

Category: Creative Flash

He’s sitting there on the kitchen floor, shitty, white linoleum. He’s sitting there, back against a cold steel fridge, a half a bottle of Percocet crushed and dissolved in a tumbler of vodka nestled in his right hand, a carving knife in his left. He’s set to tell a story, beginning, to middle, to end. He could be in the bathroom right now, lying in a warm bubble bath, clutching a bottle of red wine mixed with Xanax in one hand, and a straight-razor in the other, but that wouldn’t be the right setting for telling this particular story. It’d be too soft, too expected, it wouldn’t speak in the right tone. No, the kitchen with a tumbler of vodcacet, and a carving knife, that, well, that will really grab readers, really pull them close. He wants someone close.

So, he’s sitting there, it’s 3:00 AM, dull moonlight pours in through a large skylight. He likes this room because of that skylight, sipping hot coffee in the morning sun, sitting here right now, under a clear night sky. He likes feeling outside, yet not.  He looks toward his vodkacet, knows he’s about to feel so good, so warm. It’ll feel cold in his mouth, burn as he swallows. He’ll be wrapped in a cozy blanket of false contentment. That feeling will be the off-brand version of a lover’s touch, or kiss, or the decadent oblivion found inside the right woman, lying on tousled silk sheets. The off-brand version of how it feels to wake in the morning and see her face. He sighs and takes a sip, decides not to stop until the glass is empty. It feels just like he imagined it would, maybe better. Just now, Goddamn fuckin’ zombies could shamble into the room to keep his company piece by piece, he wouldn’t care. He’s floating around, and hanging out on clouds.

With that warm feeling washing over him, floating on clouds, he takes the carving knife, runs it down both wrists, left and right, slow and vertical. It doesn’t hurt, the vodkacet makes a whisper of all the pain he’s ever felt. His arms feel warm and wet, life pooling all around him, telling a story. He’s bleeding letters, letters forming words, forming sentences, forming paragraphs. It’s a story of loneliness, and tedium, frustration, and loss, and failure. A story spreading out all over that shitty linoleum floor, for anyone to read. A story that goes and then, and then, and then, falling toward resolution.

He closes his eyes, begins to feel sleepy. He thinks about this story that’s spilling out around him, slow and quiet-like, wonders how exactly it will end. He’s writing a stream of consciousness, and he doesn’t know where it might stop.


5 Comments so far

  1. JT from SLC March 5th, 2010 5:53 am

    Very nice, Mike. One of your best, I think. 🙂

  2. Brook March 5th, 2010 8:25 am

    I can’t lie, this scares me a little bit, but that doesn’t take away from how beautifully written this is.

    Keep writing.

  3. katherine March 5th, 2010 8:01 pm

    I really enjoyed reading this.

  4. Pati March 5th, 2010 10:38 pm

    That is a fucking amazing story, Michael. Hits very close to home. Awesome job.

  5. Amy March 11th, 2010 1:46 pm

    The last paragraph is really good.

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