Carry the 1

A young son deals with family trauma by inventing the end of his world.

Carry the 1

 

Anton Chekhov, one month shy of his 218th birthday, sat soft, finger and thumb circling his bored, bearded lips, his other hand checking his smart phone for new messages as the 27^th contestant of this years ‘St.João’s Hospital Annual Short Story Award’ stood up and began.

 

‘The end of the world was not something he would have woken up for. Not enjoying a lie in with his snooze button, it was only the satisfaction of artificial addictions that kept him from throwing the whole f*****g thing out of the window. So, after a coffee and a cigarette, with screaming rain for soundtrack, he then happily resigned himself to his day’s duties.’

 

Chekhov listened, made a note about remembering to take the DVD back, and his chin began its dip.

 

‘For as he was the only one who knew about mankind’s fiery finale, he had much to do. Walking wearing but slippers to the fridge, he first removed his to-do list and then his slippers. Proudly he took a blue pencil and flamboyantly crossed out the first entry (write to-do list). After a moment’s deep thought he confidently sliced through laundry and take back library books as heaven must have a change of clothes and hell will never let you finish Anna Karenina. The freezer no longer needed defrosting - nuclear meltdown would see to that - and he felt convinced that the roller-coaster Tsunami would do a good enough job of cleaning the bath. In for a penny, he said to himself and the rest of his own room, in for a pound: he lit another cigarette and thought too much about a quick wank.

 

Chekhov dripped a smile, took a sip of water and wondered what Demetria was doing for dinner.

 

‘The remainder of the list, now five down, included mainly saving the world. He frowned. He thought about his concave bank balance. He quickly added a sub-clause that stated in strong terms that if saving the world was proved to be an impossibility - and a quick look through the barcode-like window confirmed the obvious: the melted sun, the zigzag horizon, the vertical wind - all he had to do was look after his own orbit: find his family, send them away, place them underground, put them anywhere, delay the always inevitable, get them a good view and a blanket, let them watch the sky burst from a safer distance.’

 

Chekhov’s eyes - both of them - followed happily the back-bottom of a late, shaped nurse as she entered the hall with a clipboard and visible panty line.

 

‘He felt happier after a big dump although he immediately regretted not having put that on the list. He momentarily flirted with the idea of secretly adding it but then faltered when he realized that this was the last thing that would leave his mark on the world, his last written finger print, and he didn’t want to contaminate it with cheating and, perhaps more importantly, the word poo. He picked up Tolstoy and as he saw all the pages he would never read fly back from his pinching fingers he rang his sister, who answered as if she was expecting someone else, and arranged lunch. He told her to pack some things but when she pressed him for an answer he simply let the matter drop: tooth brushes need teeth, after all. His Mother was fortunately already dead (some idiot got the pedals mixed up) so he would drop by her grave to say sorry on the way. He wondered if he could buy some flowers although flowers were now something of the past in his scorched century; they were things in museums, things in books. He remembered that his sister could make shapes from paper so, as he left his room, he picked up Anna for her last purpose.’

 

Chekhov wanted a cig.

 

‘His sister had obviously made her usual mistake and was found waiting alone in the downstairs café. He wondered how she chose where to sit in an empty room. Snapping into a matchstick phone to her Japanese boyfriend, barking without pronouns and prepositions, she did not smile when she saw him. They should be good at this he thought, the Nipponese, maybe he can help - don’t they go through this every couple of hundred years, saving face while their world falls apart? She folded the phone away and talked at him for too long about this and that. He ordered from the one-page menu and listened to her and realized he had never known her and that was ok, there had been worse other crimes.’

 

Chekhov lit a cigarette in front of frowns, wondering where he would put the ash.

 

‘When the bill came, he grabbed it, put it on his never-to-be-cleared tab and wondered, "Was that a good deed, buying his sister a doomsday drink but not paying for it? Would that help him past St.Peter?" As she stood up, leaving a paper crown of black and white petals, he told her she should go away, go now, go south, go fast, go under, go forever. He told her, 'Don’t ask!' She wondered why he always thought the world was going to end the last Thursday of every month. She knew from the last times not to argue, there was no use disputing it, he would wake tomorrow and the world would be put back together again and he would not remember the day before. The drugs don’t work, she thought, as she took both hands and promised and realized she had never known him and that was always to be sad.'

 

Chekhov gave the used smoke to the small, specky man next to him without a word.

 

‘As his sister left he was full of hope. He had convinced her. She had promised unconditionally to do what he said without bringing up last time when he had forgot to carry the 1. And he had taken all his medication. Clean slates. He was sad to see her go - her fox-trot walk, her concerning smiles, her deep but limited kindness, the life in her eyes, the swagger of her hair. He decided to have another cigarette before he went to his Dad as, all considered, cancer’s not that quick.’

 

Chekhov needed a piss.

 

‘Holding the now-sweaty flower he thought rain shouldn’t be like this, rain like hot snowballs, rain that bounced, rain that floats. He wrote his Mother’s name on one of the petals and wondered what percentage of Mary’s were mothers. He couldn’t honestly say he missed her when she was alive, away with the otherman, but you can’t miss what you have. She should have died better, he teared, it should have been me. And then in came Dad.’

 

Chekhov really needed a piss.

 

‘His Dad was older than when he last saw him; he had loosened a few buttons of skin, his cheeks moved with the wind. They shook firm hands. As usual he only listened, his Dad was someone where that was all you could do. While he talked he wondered why today was the day his Mum had died.’

 

Chekhov was wondering if one of the nurses (well, a nurse) could go and fetch him a bedpan.

 

'His Dad was happy to see his only son. He was happy for the phone call and happy for the company; life for him was a just a race to excuse the passing of slow days. He was happy until the son started bleating on about the apocalypse. Not again, his Dad thought, I thought we were over this, the end of the world only he knew about as the sun shone bright and full in blue, void skies. They took out the chess board and his Dad lost on purpose, all the time promising to get on the next boat out of here, to take his  treasures, to make peace with life, to say thanks, to go to her grave and say sorry. He loved his son, his love of panic, his gift of harmful generosity, even his neuroses. And his son had never been angry with his Dad; it was not something he was capable of. And Dad felt sorry for his son, which was not something he was proud of, pity for a man, but knew that character was fate, as he had read at school, and his son’s fate was a haracter shattered, a character addicted to endings. And he in turn loved his Dad but knew he was not forgiven. Father hugged his son for the first time since last time, the previous month, when the world again failed to give his son what he so dreamed off. As they stood and parted, his Dad said to his son’s eyes “You know we have forgiven you,” and left.'

 

Or a nappy.

 

'In the toilet he looked in the mirror and was surprised to see himself. “It’s not me,” He said, “It’s someone else.” He washed his hands and wondered if it was he who would melt first. Smiling full, he thought of his Dad and sister, proud that he had sent them away to a brief salvation, smiled at the thought that he had convinced them both with his prayers and pleas, working them as if by a gentle magic. But suddenly his ex-girlfriend’s car pulled into the parking lot and he panicked. How had she known? She too must be saved! Emerging casually from the toilet, he approached her as if she had arrived late to a routine meeting where no new information was expected to be given. But when he saw her looking at him he felt love tear at his holed heart. He felt what the difference was between friends and strangers: it is possible to give hurt to a friend and remain as such.’

 

Chekhov returned and gave a nod for the story to continue and thought he it was about time he probably started listening.

 

‘She was getting past bored of this. Despite his deep heart and the pain he must daily suffer there must come a point where you can only heal. He had become impossible after the accident. He only craved guiltless annihilation and, although she knew he would gleefully give her his last breath, that was not something she was looking for in a semi-serious relationship. She would always love him but never like him again; she conceded to his urgent wishing and promised to hide in the bath when the sky dropped in and didn’t mention to him that his flies were still undone.’

 

Chekhov, red-faced and tight-breathed, had found himself a nice dream to hide in full of pretty girls drinking coffee.

 

'His Dad rang the Doctor and got the usual. His daughter called her Father and confirmed the obvious. The ex-girlfriend checked in with her customary complaint. The nurses gave him a bigger pill he stored in his right cheek. He went back to his room. He put his chair in front of the window. He lit a cigarette and watched it outline his breath in grey. Here it comes, he thought, and I am ready, my deeds done, the list crossed out, I am here ready, accepting, praising, loving, ready for the end to begin.’

 

Chekhov’s chin dropped.

 

‘He sat and he saw, he watched a flame river rise and rage towards him riddled with reflections that grew to everywhere; he saw the sun say stop; he was where shadows fence, where the shadows danced. It’s ok, he dreamt smiling, this is the end of the world, but there might be another one somewhere.’

 

Chekhov awoke with a sharp prod in the ribs.

            “Very good,” he croaked, eyes grasping, “Very good. I liked the ending.”

Author's Note

Be gentle. If you read or review, please link work you would like me to read review....

Reviews

[Decanter Red]

Oh dear! I love it, i love it! It's just articulate and captured my attention 100% ;o

I normally give really detailed reviews and analysis, but there is nothing better I can recommend that what I have read. Plus, I was so absorbed in the text that I have changed perspective from a reviewer to someone who just want to throw it to the wind and go with the ride. Love it again, keep it up!

You are free to take your pick of my works for reviewing, but I would prefer if it were the novel chapters haha. Thank you for writing this, it pretty much discovered a gem today.

[Andrew James Talbot]

Wow, thanks a lot. Means a lot to read such a nice review! Will check out your work asap! Thanks again...

[Irony Is King]

I like this. It's written from an interesting angle that makes you unsure of exactly which is the story and which is the reality. Confusing but i dig it and it is well written. The only suggustions i can think of are more visual descriptions to paint a more vivid picture and maybe extend the intro to include more of a backstory. Good stuff!