Authors: Chris Bowsman
“That means a lot. Seriously.”
“You want me to hang around? Not like I got a job to go to or anything.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be alright.” Gerald thought about his own job, and decided that even if he wasn’t already fired, he wasn’t going back. Whatever happened with this stuff that was going on, he was going to make some changes in his life. No more being a miserable motherfucker all the time. He hated his job, so he’d get a new one. The first thing he was going to do when he got inside was call and quit. No, he couldn’t do that. He needed to do it in person. “Tell you what,” he said. “Come on in. I’m gonna get a shower and change, then we’re gonna go to my office. I’m quitting that stupid job.”
“Quitting without another one lined up? Good move, bro,” Wilson said, laughing.
“So you can tell me how to run my life, but I can’t tell you how to run yours?”
“Fuckin’ A, man.” They both laughed and went inside.
Part 3
It was my last act of love.
- Sylvia Plath
Chapter 16
“Hey, I’m ready,” Gerald said, pulling on a t-shirt and walking out to the living room. Wilson was sitting on the couch, head back, asleep, and snoring. Gerald thought about waking him up, but decided he’d take Wilson’s car, go resign, and let the guy sleep. When he got back, the two of them would go find his abandoned car and try to get it back on the road. How long could it take to say “I quit,” anyway?
Gerald drove into town, lost in thought about what he was ready to do. Even with all the other stuff going on, quitting a job, especially when he didn’t have another one lined up, was serious shit. God, why the hell was he going to quit? The job was easy, he made decent money, it was relatively secure . . .
“Because I hate it, that’s why,” he said aloud. “Because people who hate their jobs either need to do something about it or shut the fuck up. I’m doing something about it.” Somehow, the words gave him the conviction to know what he was doing was the right thing.
After he’d been driving more than half an hour, Gerald felt disoriented. He didn’t recognize anything around him. At the same moment, realization dawned on him. “Not again,” he said. He stopped the car in the middle of the road and got out. He looked around and watched the trees and grass on either side of the road melt and morph into a desert. The daylight faded to a purplish dusk and a lone figure strode toward him.
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” Gerald said.
“So much for the pleasantries, then,” Mr. Holman said. As usual, he removed his glasses and polished them.
“Am I not supposed to quit my job? Is that what’s going on? Every time I’m about to fuck up, is there some cosmic force stopping me?”
Mr. Holman smiled a humorless smile. “I thought we were past this, Gerald.” He put his glasses back on, straightened them, and his expression grew more serious. “Regardless, now is not the time. You should return home.”
“How am I supposed to go back home? I’m in the middle of nowhere.”
“Have you tried?”
“Of course I haven’t.”
“Perhaps you should,” Mr. Holman said, and faded away. Gerald stood, trying not to be angry. He took a deep breath, got back in the car, and did a U-turn, heading back toward his house. Or at least what he thought was back toward his house.
“No,” he said. “Not what I think.” He did his best to drive on instinct, turning whenever a road appeared. The scenery did not change back, but in the distance, he saw his house at the end of the road. Along with his house, he saw a column of black smoke pouring from it, and as he drew nearer, he could see flames. Without thinking, Gerald’s right foot pushed the accelerator to the floor, and in impossible seconds, he covered the distance to his house. He jumped from the car and ran toward the home, past the green pickup truck in his driveway. The Confederate flag flying in the back was ablaze, flames leaping from the previously blue and red X fabric. In the window, he saw someone slump against the glass and collapse to the floor.
“Oh my god, WILSON!” he screamed. Gerald looked around for something to break the window, but there was nothing. The only items were half a dozen plastic gas cans, lying on their sides, the contents apparently drained onto his house. He advanced, ready to punch or kick the glass, but flames erupted toward him. He ran to the front door, but again was stopped by the flames. No matter where he tried to gain entrance, the flames billowed like hellfire.
Unable to give up, he continued trying each of the entrances, choking on the smoke, sobbing for his friend. He looked into the window again, saw Wilson attempt to stagger to his feet, then collapse. Seemingly in response, the flames died back from the door for a moment, and Gerald threw himself against it, crashing through.
What remained of Wilson was little more than a smoldering heap, black and charred. Gerald stared at his lifeless friend then ran to the kitchen cabinet that housed Tracy’s urn. The cabinet door was charred, but Gerald threw it open, burning himself on the handle. He knew he couldn’t take Wilson with him, but he also knew he couldn’t leave Tracy here. He grabbed the unmarred urn and ran from the house.
Outside, Gerald dropped to the grass, unable to move. This was his fault. If he hadn’t gone to Wilson’s house, if he hadn’t asked him to stay, this wouldn’t have happened. The guy might have sat around drinking himself into oblivion, but he sure as hell wouldn’t have burned to death.
Gerald lay in the grass, trying to breathe normally, clutching the urn, choking on smoke and tears. He had no idea what he was going to do now. He rolled over to face the house, to watch it burn to the ground. He wasn’t surprised to see four dark figures emerge from the flames. Despite the hopelessness, the threat of death motivated him to get up and run.
“No,” Gerald said, laughing dryly. “No way I’m gonna make it easy for you fucks.” He bolted to his feet and ran as fast as his oxygen deprived body would allow. No matter how fast he ran, they still caught up, their tentacle-covered bodies and sawed-off alligator snout faces nearly catching him. The urn slipped from his hands, the contents spilling all over the ground. Gerald’s stomach dropped and he knew he couldn’t run anymore. Tracy, his friend, his fucking house, all gone. There was nothing left. He looked around, now at a cliff’s edge, and turned to face his pursuers. He watched as they slowed, stopping maybe ten feet from him. They spread out, as if they thought maybe he’d try to run again. The thought of running again almost made Gerald laugh.
I literally can’t run to save my life
, he thought. As he thought this, the creatures walked closer to each other, merging together, three of them disappearing, leaving only one.
“What do you want?” Gerald asked, almost disinterestedly. The answer didn’t really matter, and he only asked to fill the silence.
“We want nothing.” Gerald certainly hadn’t expected the creature to answer. “What do you want?”
“I want my life back. I want Tracy and Wilson back. I want to never have seen your ugly face.”
The creature took a step toward him. Gerald looked behind himself, and saw water far below. His heels scraped bits of dust off the edge.
“No. You want pain. Otherwise, why bring all this about? This is all from you,” the creature said, continuing toward Gerald. Before Gerald could consider this, he involuntarily backed away, falling off the cliff. He fell in slow motion, spinning head over heels nearly three complete turns before splashing into the water. He fought to swim to the surface, but the river was flowing much faster than it had appeared from above, and he was unable to get more than a few quick breaths before being dragged back under.
This is all from you
.
How was this his doing? He’d never done anything wrong, never committed any cardinal sin to bring such karma against himself. He’d done nothing . . . No, that wasn’t true. He’d created the creatures. But how? Were they real? It didn’t matter. Did they exist outside his head? It didn’t matter. The misery, the hatred. The creatures were born of these feelings. Only by the time he decided to change, to put the feelings out of himself, it was too late. They’d become too strong, been a part of him for too long.
Gerald continued struggling to the surface, his strength nearly drained. He broke the surface, opened his mouth to take a breath, and was hit in the face by a wave.
What do you want?
What do I want? Tracy, Wilson . . . No. They weren’t the answers, not in that sense. The depression. The misery. He wanted them gone. He wanted to be happy again. Happy, together with Tracy. That was the most basic, fundamental answer to the question.
With the last of his energy, Gerald kicked and paddled to what he thought was the surface, but his head was spinning, and he had no idea which way was up.
You have a choice.
Tracy. He heard Tracy’s voice, and for a moment, nothing else mattered. Not his burning lungs, not the pressure on his eardrums, not his pounding heart. Nothing.
What?
he thought.
You. Have. A. Choice.
He heard her this time, understood her this time. There was nothing left for him in either reality. Everything was gone and all that remained was this choice. The most fundamental choice for any living being.
Gerald chose.
He quit struggling. Peace swept over him and his body relaxed. With one last exhalation, peace and calm spread through his body. Gerald went limp and he heard Wilson say something that brought the hint of a smile to his face.
Go with the flow.
Do I have the courage to do this? she thinks, staring down at her legs, at the razor in her hands, at nothing at all.
“
It’s not about courage,” a voice in her head says. She doesn’t know the voice and it raises goosebumps on her cold flesh once again.
A memory:
They had just walked out of a small movie theater, both of them delighted by the film. Their tastes were complementary, but it was rare for both of them to love the same movie this much. They were smiling, holding hands, so in love that not only did nothing else matter, nothing else
existed.
Prior to the movie, they’d gone to dinner. Nothing too fancy, but it had been perfect. Everything about the evening had been perfect.
Afterward, they’d walked back to the car and driven around for hours, completely aimlessly, simply basking in each other’s company. Every song on the radio echoed the feeling, every single nuance was simply perfect.
Once they’d finally gotten home, Gerald had kissed her at the door, like they were sixteen and they wouldn’t see each other again until the next day at school. He picked her up, carried her through the door, and kissed her all the way to their bed. He’d undressed her, and they’d made love for what seemed like eternity, until they were both entirely spent, and passed out with their arms entwined, bodies as one.
Tracy can definitely still feel. She weeps as she remembers the evening, knowing there will never be another like it. Tears pour down her face as she gasps, sobbing, years of emotion ripping its way out of her in this moment.
She knows how wonderful, how amazing it can be. How can she go on knowing it will never be that way again? They had set the bar impossibly high that night, and she knows she cannot continue to live short of it. She does not believe this is a selfish decision. No one with such hatred for herself could be doing anything in her own self interest. No, she’s doing this for Gerald. Even though she will never be happy again, will never feel that way again, she knows he can. What could possibly be more selfish than denying him that?
Tracy lifts up the razor, examines it. She fumbles with it, and snaps off part of the guard, exposing a squared off corner of blade, slicing her thumb in the process. She watches as blood runs down her thumb to her wrist, dripping between her breasts. The slight pain disappears as she loses herself watching the trail run down her chest and stomach, toward her dark patch of pubic hair floating listlessly in the water. The water turns a darker shade of pink, then becomes red in the immediate area where the blood is running. She reaches down with the cut hand, smears the blood across her stomach, runs the bleeding thumb over her breasts and nipples, painting them red as well.
She feels nothing.
With no further thought, as if she is no longer controlling herself, she presses the blade to her left wrist, puncturing the skin. She draws the blade upward, toward her elbow, leaving a four inch gash, even more blood spilling from it in spurts. She regains a little feeling, enough to notice the blood loss making her get light headed. It reminds her of the first time she smoked a cigarette. Before this thought has come and gone, she has switched hands, and is now carving up her right wrist. The razor drops from her hand, splashing silently. She lies back, sliding down in the tub until her feet touch the edge under the faucet. All her strength is gone, and her arms drop into the water, now entirely red. Her vision is fading, and she tries to remember the evening with . . . with . . . but now everything, even his name, is slipping. Every touch, every kiss, every moment with him. All gone. In the seconds before death, she wishes she could take it back, had no idea she’d lose it all like this. But of course, she can’t, and everything slips away.
There is no white light. She cannot look down, see her body. No choir of angels, no harps, no St. Peter standing before the Pearly Gates. Instead, there is Gerald. He smiles at her, waiting, as patient and perfect as always.
Chris lives in Springfield, Ohio, with his wife and three sons. He spends a lot of time reading and writing.