Canvas

A Story by Ethan Thompson

What do you do when the thrill is gone?

    Mitch sat in bed and looked out the window. Girls in bathing suits were coming down the street, probably going to swim in the communal piss pot for a couple hours. They were all tan and beautiful. He leaned to the side so they wouldn’t see him.
    There was one girl he knew, her name was Alissa.
Along time ago, before he turned useless, they swung on the swing set together at his brother’s baseball game. Her dad took turns under-dogging them. It was the most fun Mitch could remember having.
His friend Donovan said they dropped acid together. He said they walked around town for a while and when they got back to his house she blew him. The thought tore through Mitch and made it so that all he could see was her freckled face ruined.
Mitch didn’t talk to Donovan anymore, with his stupid birdnose and his dumb balding crown. Who was he trying to fool with that comb over?
He fingered the rope under his bed and watched the ceiling fan spin around. There was a piece of paper tied to one of the boards so he could count how many revolutions it made. His record, 3,022.
Knock knock. “Mitch?”
“What?”
“I’m going to the store. Do you want anything?”
“No.”
“Keep an eye on your brother.”
He heard the carpet rustle as she walked away.
She didn’t try opening the door anymore. She rarely came up to talk to him. She spent all her time downstairs with Todd.
He dragged his desk chair under the fan and fastened the noose to it. There was nothing inside him. White canvas.
    “Mitch?”
    “What do you want you little f****t?”
    “Can I borrow your baseball mit?”
    “No. F**k off.”
    “Come on. I need it.”
    “It won’t even fit you.”
    “So? Please I need it.”
    Mitch sighed and reached into his closet and pulled out a worn old baseball glove.
    “Keep it.” he said and threw it at Dewey. His lip started bleeding and his eyes welled up.
    “You’re so stupid.” he said. “Why do you have to be such jerk all the time.”
    Dewey clenched his fist and punched his brother in the mouth.
    “I hate you.” he said and ran down the stairs.
When he got to the bottom he looked up to see if Mitch was chasing after him. Not as relieved as he was disappointed, Dewey wiped his tears.
“Why don’t you chase me anymore?”
Mitch didn’t say anything.
Dewey huffed and gave him the finger. He slipped out the back to play ball with his friends.
Mitch’s door shut and locked out of habit.
He stood up on the chair. It’s legs were wobbly from when he’d practiced kicking it over. A quick tug on the rope to make sure it was strong enough.
His eyes closed, and he swiped the side of it with his foot. There was a quick falling sensation followed by a pounding head. The room was dark now except for the light coming through the window. A hole the size of his torso was in the ceiling, loose wires dangled from it. Plaster and broken glass covered his head and shoulders. He looked up at the cloudless sky through the window and wept.