|
Prolific Writer
Join Date: Aug 2007
Gender: Male
Posts: 242
|
Considerate of Others
The young man closed his eyes and dragged on his cigarette, his brows furrowed in a look exclusive to those who have come to a decision not after days, but years of consideration. He sighed, and from his parted mouth came a trail of smoke. It crept over his upper lip and blanketed his face in a small fog before dispersing. Then, in a movement that seemed almost fey in its deliberation, he snubbed the cigarette on the edge of his desk, leaving a circle of black, speckled ash.
In a lazy, apathetic gesture, he rolled the wrapped nicotine between his index and middle finger, staring at it with half closed eyes. He twirled it, caught it between the base of his thumb and the tip of his index, and gave it a shake so that it went up one side, down the other, a white see saw. After a minute of this silent display, he stopped, and looked out the window across from his desk.
From here, he could see many things below. Roads dotted by cars of various colors, trees and leaves lit by swathes of sun, sidewalks filled with families coming or going to the beach, restaurants, board shops, clothe shops, souvenir shops, shops, shops, more shops.
He flicked his cigarette. It hit the window, fell, clipped the sill, and landed at a crooked angle on the rug. A puddle of light from outside shone on the black coils protruding from its end.
He then stood from his desk and stretched his arms as far as they’d go. He stretched his legs. His back. Toe touches, squats. After ridding himself of all physical tension, he took his chair and turned it so that it faced the bed of his room, on top of which an open laptop laid center.
He sat down, and regarded the device across from him in the same manner one might regard a passing object of peculiar interest, a mild appeal that one knows they’ll never stumble upon again, but know as well they could pass by without feeling deprived of its temporary presence. This expression soon devolved to loathe, and he sat there, silent, arms crossed.
The screen was on the same page he had left it. In black, bold font, read five words: ‘Your message has been sent.’
He looked over at the clock on his night table and saw that it was five forty. He knew the recipient of the e-mails schedule down pat. At five thirty she left work, five forty five arrived home, and after muttering to herself about the trite concerns of the every day, she logged on to check her e-mail. He knew that his would be the first she opened, and for the slightest of moments a tinge of guilt crept into his conscience, riling him to the surface temporarily before letting him go.
The letter said everything he needed it to. That he was thankful for everything she’d done, everything she’d tried, that he was thankful for her patience, her understanding, for always pulling him up. That it wasn’t her fault, that she shouldn’t blame herself. That he loved her, but that he was too far gone now, that he had been too far gone. It ended with a dash and his name, and he had clicked send, eyes half closed.
After taking one more glance at the clock, he shut the laptop and proceeded with dull alacrity, a paradox only present in those who have lost all purpose but remain aware of one last act. He pulled his suitcase out from the under the hotel bed, and threw it atop, unzipping it to pull out layers of towels, greens, whites, pinks. He had brought with him no adornments.
After piling them on top one another, he reached back into the suitcase and retrieved from it a .9 caliber gun. He held it towards the window and watched as the light smudged behind it, then checked the safety, nodded, and placed it nose first into his back pocket. He tucked three towels under each arm, and entered the bathroom.
The walls and floor were of the white gleam characteristic to hotels who wish their customers to come again, and the mirror showed no smear or dust, proof to the vigilance of the cleaning crew. An unused bar of soap and a fresh tube of toothpaste lay neatly next to one another, on the right side of a shined faucet. Cognizant of time already passed, he dropped both stacks of towels onto the seat of the toilet (which, he knew without having to see, had been polished to perfection), and began.
He removed the first two and laid one down the tubs center, and one across its arms. Using two more, he layered both these over, and then filled the gaps between them with what left he had. It took two minutes to finish, sallying between bathroom and bedroom to retrieve the towels and place them in places he surmised would be hit with content. When done, he looked once in the mirror, studied himself, then returned to the bedroom for the towel he would wrap around his head.
He pinched the corner, lifted, and jerked his wrist in a snapping motion. The towel came undone and hung fully open. Suddenly the cell-phone from his suitcase began to ring. He did not turn to look at the clock. He ignored the phone and wrapped the towel around his head, pinching the corner and tucking it into the bottom slip to secure it. The phone stopped. A silence ensued. Immediately, it began to ring again.
He removed the gun from his pocket and entered the bathroom. He sat down into the tub, on top of the two towels he had laid on the bottom, and leaned back his head, cushioned by the makeshift turban. The phone stopped. Began again. He cocked the chamber. He placed the gun to his temple. He closed his eyes.
The phone rang, and rang, and rang.
The End
|
