Social Short Story – Tomorrow we’ll die…
Image© Anand Vishnu Prakash, YourStoryClub.com
He woke from a substantial evening rest with a start, as if a ringer had rung inside his head. He had an obscure memory of imagining there was someone in the room. A man with beard, tuxedo with a watch chain. Professor? How kind of you to come. Obviously, I recall. Extraordinary hypothesis! Totally mouth-watering! Verily, every pooch has its day.
He laughed, recollecting the foolish discussion, and, automatically, took a gander at the dusty floor covering by the bed. To what extent since the pooch passed on? Around a year now, however he was all the while attempting to deal with his misery. He would do anything to keep her with him, and to keep her young – the one present he would never give. All things considered, today, finally, was his day. He took a gander at the clock: supper time. Better skip it – why leave a wreck? He got up with a snort, put on his flips and went to the chair covered up under the heaps of dusty books. Clearing the books down to the floor, he pulled the seat to the focal point of the room.
As he ventured on the broken leather seat, a sudden energy came over him and he got the lamp to abstain from falling. “Hold on, old kid”, he said to himself. He stood still for a couple of minutes, and afterward deliberately expelled the lamp to uncover a thick metal bar that had held the apparatus, around 33% of an inch in width. Enough to hold his thirteen stone… He descended and went to get a length of rope he had purchased for this reason. The rope had a noose toward the end, spares time. He got back and, slipping the flip side over the bar in the roof, tied the rope so there was simply enough slack to put his head in.
At long last, with his neck in the noose, he investigated. The commonplace things glanced back at him with chilly impression. The old furniture frowned, anticipating its own particular inevitable destiny. Indeed, even his books had a far off pulled back air. To think these were the last snippets of his pitiable life! On top of the bookshelf covered with gathered garbage, he recognized a dusty vodka bottle – disposed of proof of his past overindulgence. Half-vacant, he grinned sharply. Abruptly he needed a drink. Why not? Could to light up his mood at last.
Adjusting dubiously on the seat, still with the noose on, he went after the bottle. The seat inclined perilously however didn’t crumple. He snatched it and came back to his upright position. The cap was difficult to unscrew – however you never lose ability in such matters. He opened the bottle and took a provisional taste. The vodka had a stale taste and appeared to have lost some of its quality. He breathed out profoundly and drank in one swallow. Instantly, a wonderfully hot sensation spread in his stomach. Now he wanted a smoke, he thought, this is going to be the last. He slipped off the noose and moved down. There was a little table and a rocker by the window. He sat down and lit a cigarette. Had attempted to kick it off, a variety of times and now, humorously, was going to surrender it – alongside his life.
He took a gander at the bustling road beneath, Christmas soon. At the passage to the bar adorned with wreaths and festoons three supporters were talking animatedly over their beers. All of a sudden he needed company, some individual to talk, to take his brain off the dismal business within reach. As yet smoking, he wore a coat and felt the pockets for the wallet. The ridiculous thing was absent. He glanced around and discovered it lying on the floor adjacent to his child’s well used out tennis shoes. Then he decided to go out on a spree. What an existence! He tapped his pants pockets. There must be some cash left after his visit to the laundry. Beyond any doubt enough, two or three folded bills were tucked in the watch pocket. Enough to purchase him a couple of drinks. He put on his old shoes and went out leaving the entryway opened. A letter was standing out of the post box first floor and he naturally got it without taking a gander at the sender’s name.
The men at the way to the bar were no more. He went inside and sat down at a free table. The barkeeper and the server looked new. There were a couple of couples and single supporters having their night drinks. He requested a scotch and checked out savouring the red-hot taste and a sudden opportunity to hesitate. A young lady turned upward from her laptop and gave him a speculative grin. He grinned back. Pleasant to get a little consolation before setting off on the excellent excursion. He recollected the letter and got the folded envelope out of his pants pocket. His specialist, another repetitive record of late dismissals. Then again was the two-bit bastard surrendering his administrations through and through? He tore the envelope open:
“… purchasing first distribution rights… $ 50,000 advance payment” He quickly felt natural delight at having his book acknowledged. Was Lady Luck attempting to entice him back? Too late… His abstract brilliance, assuming any, was absolutely going to be after death. All of a sudden, in spite of himself, he was considering the cash. Would it pay for the clinic, as he considered heading off to a rehab.
“I’m sorry. Professor Michael?” The young lady was remaining by his table, grinning; the tablet under her arm. That grin, so lovely and disturbingly known.
“Yes, that is me… Do I know you?”
“I’m Arlena… Arlena, remember the 2003 creative writing class?”
How would he be able to overlook! His most committed student ever. Also, Arlena – the brightest of all! “Arlena? Yes I remember, what are you doing here in Philippines?”
“It’s a long story… all that really matters is I’m here and I don’t think I’ll ever backtrack.”
“Also, your family? ”
“They stayed back… ”
“So… What do you do? Got the job?”
“Independent, Copy writing for style magazines.”
“Hey, you look prosperous! Must be paying you well.”
“I have a rich beau.” She chuckled. “How is your family?” Something in his eyes sold out him. She abruptly looked concerned. “Is it true that they are well?”
“Spouse’s dead. Lung malignancy.”
“I’m sad… And your child?”
“He’s… getting by. Out of work. Briefly.”
“Say my hello to him. How’s your work? Composing anything?”
“Yes, occupied as damnation.” He grinned at his dark cleverness. “What’s more, what are you doing in this area?”
“Gracious… ” She checked the time. “Waiting for some individual who likes to miss arrangements. Must run now. Was great to see you, Professor. See, why don’t we get together for a drink at some point? Make up for lost time with tattle, recollect the great old times? Here’s my business card. Do call me.” She stood up and went to the entryway leaving a scent of costly aroma afterward. He sat for some time washing in that sweet aroma and the memory of her grin, then requested another drink. He knew he was going to get drunk. What the hell! Who said executing yourself was to be done simple and sober…
It was dull outside when he got up from the table. The bar was shutting. He dubiously thought of calling Arlena, enlightening her regarding the container that had helpfully been; well, half-full, about her flawless grin and his new book going to be distributed. In no way like a couple scotches to make you feel invigorated and kicking! As he strolled insecurely over the street, a passing taxi about kept running into him. The woman driver blared at him furiously. “Happy Christmas, sweetheart! Come eat and drink with me, tomorrow we’ll die!” cried to her and chuckled unsteadily. Damn, life was entertaining! He checked the time: 00-03. Tomorrow, tomorrow, dusty death! Upstairs, he left dead speechless, held by sudden apprehension. With a trembling hand, he pulled at his shirt neckline as though an imperceptible rope was at that point choking him. Wheezing for breath, he pushed the entryway open. The flat was dim and there was an unmistakable odour of piss. He flicked on the switch and saw a fallen seat in the entryway ahead. At that point he saw his loafers. One was lying by the seat. The other was on one of the pair of legs dangling in the square of light that fell into the dim room. His son was there.
–END–
