9 became zero

9 became zero, and the jagged sounds of "Back in Black" ratched him awake. He was instantly aware of one thing. He was alone. He shook off no dreams filled with old friends and wondrous strangers, these being too hard to leave behind in the empty dawn. He had simply stopped dreaming weeks ago. This made the harsh ache of loneliness less shocking to the system each morning. Besides, one might gather hope from dreams. Hope had burned dangerous holes in the delicate silk of his sanity. Rising to the edge of the bed, he fought rouse his day's first cigarette, which stubbornly refused to give up its resting spot to his sleep-numb fingertips. "Death to you," he said absently to the cigarette. "And death for me" he added. "Only yours will be quicker."

                                   Lately he had begun to personify the random items he interacted with each day. He held short, terse conversations with his jumble of keys, as he searched to unlock the various doors in his life. He made grand proclamations to the silent furniture in his shoebox apartment.  He cooed reassuringly to his middle-aged Buick as he coaxed it over the steeper hills on it's daily commute. And as he sat on the bed, sucking death from between his fingers, he cursed furiously at the rising Sun. It was not a welcome sight, serving only to remind him that Death had once again denied him his only remaining desire. For when the essence of your life, the very thing you live for, is ripped from you, never to be returned, the only desire left is death. 

                                    Accepting that his suffering had to continue another day, he rose, and began to apply the mask that the rest of the world would see. To somehow hide the suicide note that was written in his eyes. He began to wonder if the facade was finally cracking, falling away to reveal the truth underneath. He noticed people crossing the street to avoid his eyes, mothers pulling their children closer, tighter, as he passed. Maybe Death was nearer than he thought, and they could sense it. He was like passing a graveyard, or the scene of a recent murder. His shadows were vultures, waiting to feast. His zombie-flesh heart beat a lurching staccato, a Zydeco Death March, heard only in the darkest reaches of the minds of those he passed. But still, they heard it.

                                        He darkened rooms. He emptied aisles in the Shop Rite. He made the tellers at the bank quiet and nervous, texting their children and husbands as soon as he turned away. Because, when one meets a person who has no hope in his heart, a plea for death in his eyes, it leaves you cold-skinned and shaken, suddenly empty of any illusion that "everything will be O.K." Okay was not even an option for him anymore. Okay meant a feeling of optimism, which he shed long ago. Optimism, the razor sharp knife that always cut you deep, no matter how delicately you handled it. Hope and optimism only made the wait for Death that much harder. He preferred the sterile emptiness left behind after carving everything that was worthy from his soul. Better to wait in an empty room. Silent, without complaint.

                                          In desperation, he put his soul to death, strangled with the taught cords of his own brutal truth. It died without resistance, taking love and memory with it. They say, "cut off the head, and the body will die", but when you cut out a soul, the body remains, and wanders, a shell, desolate and empty. Waiting for the merciful wings of the Dark Angel to envelop it, ending the directionless toil. Death finds the hopeless as expended clockwork toy soldiers, cast aside into one of worlds abandoned corners. He mumbled his one prayer to the Gods that had fled from the Universe. He prayed for death. Then he went to work.

Author's Note

fuck it, it's art

Reviews

[Just another person on ..]

You said it - f**k it, it's art. This is art. You have written something that can easily be identified with by many people and yet it remains eloquent beyond how most are likely to quantify such feelings. I think the idea of the story little depth of plot or much variation in theme is part of the entire experience that is meant to be taken from reading it. Maybe I've read into it in a different way than you intended or maybe your intentions are many and I've only made once of the possible conclusions. There's an obvious literary element to this story that I also enjoyed.

[c.harrison.grant]

Thanks Kevin. I lived a day like the one in this story, possibly many, so maybe its not fiction. I had no preconceived intentions, it just came out of me. I started reading your stuff today, I very much enjoy your style. I'm trying to work into more complex and detailed stories like yours, but I tend to just put the pencil (yes, pencil) to the paper and let what comes out live as it is born. thank you for taking the time to read my stuff. I will definitely return the favor.