《Such Fragile Things》
I: The Leak: Part One
I
Something in the house was rotting.
It had been a steady drip from the ceiling, something leaking from the firmly locked attic of the newly dubbed Dudley house.
Plip. Plip. Plip.
Do you remember me? an imaginary voice seemed to ask him. You¡¯ve been here before.
Ghosts lurked within the walls, muffled by wallpaper and clawing at the wood floors, crying out with every creak of the old boards. The house had been built in the mid to late 1800s as all of the old farmhouses up the hill and solid brick homes that dotted the thicket-choked woods and west were. The suburbs nearer to the entrance of town were only new as of the mid-1900s, most of those houses constructed of shoddy vinyl, cheap wood and mint tile. They spoke of a promised lifestyle, of the agritourism the town had once been known for and fancy little cocktail parties to celebrate the local elections as the poodles in their pleated skirts gathered around the black and white moving pictures. They sang with an era desperate to be born only to be snatched away as a child from its cradle and left a dream¡¯s cadaver.
But the old farmhouses had been crooning their sweet sorrows forever, bellowing from the smokestacks and char-smothered chimneys the toil of hard labor and cold, sleepless nights. With every breath of the wind, they winced and sighed, beams shifting and settling as they exhaled.
Plip. Plip. Plip.
The house was born long before Winston was a thought.
And it would remain when he ceased to be so much as one.
Something above the house was rotting.
Dripping steadily from the water stain in the ceiling beneath the locked attic at the top of the stairs, something dark and rancid wetly slapped the boards and slithered between the cracks, thicker than water and reeking of something spoiled.
You¡¯ve been here before. She let you in.
On the wall of what was once assuredly a child¡¯s room upstairs, doodles were drawn in black crayon, some little person or monster tucked away in the low corner of the baseboards with the blocky initials K.N. scrawled proudly beneath it. The faded features had been contorted into something screaming with mouth agape, or perhaps it was the accumulated filth that had given it a face in the first place.
Plip.
They dripped from the floor to the ceiling, soaking into the water stain in strange reverse.
The kitchen sink was clogged with poorly discarded food, offering solace to invading insects that the drain flies made bold use of.
Something rancid rested within the pipes, most assuredly offering a later problem to the newly arrived family.
Something below the house was rotting.
Winston stood at the bottom of the old staircase staring upwards at the water stain through tired, half-lidded eyes as the steady sound of the dripping became muddied with the pervading whistle of tinnitus that grew louder and louder in his ears like white noise. Dull thoughts circled the back of his mind like blackbirds, mundane thoughts of ¡°what color paint does the bathroom need to be?¡± and ¡°should the couch sit near the window or the far wall?¡± as the sight before him hardly scratched the surface of his awareness.
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The screech of his young daughter cut through the fabric of his consciousness and the voice of his wife wormed its way through the opening to ask ¡°did you get all of the boxes inside?¡±
Winston finally broke eye contact with the ceiling spot to turn his attention to the ashy-haired woman seated on one of the unopened boxes labeled ¡°living room¡±, the toddler on her lap gleefully shaking about her googly-eyed doll to watch the pupils rattle.
¡°Huh? Oh. Yeah. All empty. I¡¯ll take the truck back in the morning,¡± he answered, rubbing the side of his face with one hand with exhaustion.
¡°Don¡¯t forget to call Bill about the furniture,¡± she said as the child swatted her doll to the floor then proceeded to whine noisily now that it was out of her reach.
¡°I talked to him this morning. He said he¡¯ll be here tomorrow around noon.¡±
¡°Well, call him again. Where are we supposed to sleep tonight if we don¡¯t have the beds?¡± the woman asked him tersely.
¡°We have blankets, Marie. We can¡¡± Winston took a short breath as he combed his fingers through his fine caramel hair. ¡°... lay them out on the floor. Pretend we¡¯re camping. We have those pillows in the car.¡±
¡°On this dirty floor..?¡± Marie asked with a scarcely concealed note of dismay as she surveyed the dusty wooden floor.
¡°Well, we can clean it,¡± Winston sighed, gesturing to the floor with a sweeping motion of his hand. ¡°We¡¯re gonna have to at some point anyway. Colette¡¯s allergies are going to keep us up all night otherwise.¡±
¡°That reminds me, did you get in touch with the doctor here? We need to make sure we pick up her medicine first thing in the morning before we run out.¡±
¡°Yes, yes. I did.¡± Winston exhaled with a nod to nothing in particular, shifting his coffee gaze towards the kitchen where the wall-mounted landline rested as the child continued to whine and cry out. ¡°I will¡ I will call Bill and see if he can get here any sooner. Hopefully he¡¯ll pick up at this hour. And then I¡¯ll take care of the floor. And tomorrow morning, I¡¯ll pick up Colette¡¯s medicine and take the truck back.¡±
¡°What was the name of the doctor again?¡±
¡°Anderson. Juliette Anderson.¡±
¡°You already talked to Anderson?¡±
¡°Yes. I did.¡± Winston said stiffly, those whines and whimpers drilling deeper into his temples. ¡°I just said I got in touch with the doctor.¡±
¡°You don¡¯t have to be testy with me. You could have just gotten in touch with the office and not the doctor himself so I wanted to make sure.¡±
¡°Her, Marie. Her name is Juliette. She¡¯s a woman.¡±
¡°Why are you being rude?¡±
¡°I¡¯m not-¡± The man shook his head and let his hands fall to his sides. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. Okay? I¡¯m just¡ tired. Let me call Bill and get to work on the floor.¡±
¡°Thank you,¡± Marie said, leaning down to finally pick the toy up for the girl and cease the cries. ¡°And you already called the water and power companies?¡±
How else would the lights be on? Winston wanted to ask but bit his tongue firmly, instead silently and hastily excusing himself to the floral-printed kitchen off to his right.
¡°Winston?¡± Marie called upon realizing she wasn¡¯t receiving an answer.
¡°I¡¯m on the phone!¡± Winston called back despite not having yet dialed as he held the phone in his hands with his finger lightly resting on the buttons.
Plip. Plip. Plip.
He could still hear it somewhere above him, somewhere above the ceiling, one drop at a time.
¡°Marie, do you mind getting a bucket from the pantry and putting it under the leak upstairs? I¡¯ll call a plumber first thing in the morning, too,¡± he called only to be responded to with ¡°I¡¯m busy, Winston!¡±
¡°Can¡¯t you put Colette down for a minute?¡±
¡°On this floor?¡±
¡°Then take her with you. You¡¯re just grabbing an empty bucket, Marie.¡±
¡°Aren¡¯t you on the phone?¡±
Winston begrudgingly set the phone back into its cradle and shuffled to the pantry door, jerking it open after a couple of attempts as the door was jammed in his frame. ¡°Gotta be the humidity¡¡± he muttered to himself, leaning down to pick up the plastic bucket from the linoleum and taking it out of the room.
¡°What did Bill say?¡± Marie asked as she still remained seated on the box.
¡°He didn¡¯t pick up,¡± he lied and trudged upstairs.
The bucket was placed beneath the leak with a loud plop and immediately began to slowly fill with the drip, drip, drip from the attic, sludgy brown quickly taking refuge along the edges of the interior. It sounded louder now as the plastic bottom acted as a drum, Winston watching each drip balefully.
¡°What are we getting for dinner?¡± Marie called from downstairs. ¡°I¡¯m not cooking until that kitchen is clean and I can¡¯t go grocery shopping until tomorrow.¡±
Winston¡¯s eyes never left the contents of the bucket, dimly imagining it overflowing and filling the house, drowning him and everyone in it. ¡°Whatever you want, Marie. Whatever you want.¡±
I: The Leak: Part Two
II
In the cold December daylight, the muted atmosphere of the town gave it all the impression of being almost abandoned. From the withering ivy that crept up the fence that surrounded the partially rusted playground near the old orphanage to the majority of the shops along the outlet strip being long out of business, Winston took in the bittersweet nostalgia of it. The crunch of his boots against the gravel was nearly deafening by comparison, his breath shaky and hasty exhales of exhaustion while he hiked his way along the gravel road away from the clinic just past the diner with its flickering neon sign in the window beckoning him inside. The paper bag containing his daughter¡¯s medicine crinkled within the confines of his pockets with every step, though the man stopped to scrutinize the siren¡¯s call of the scent of breakfast that wafted from the diner¡¯s door, a blonde woman stepping out from within to release it to the world.
The woman in her navy blue button-up pencil dress and matching cardigan offered Winston only a lingering passing glance, holding the door open for but a moment then releasing it as Winston failed to approach it. He watched her on her way and, with a purse of his lips, he decidedly entered the building and was greeted with the warm embrace of coffee and bacon that gripped his nostrils and tugged him to the nearest empty booth, though he had little intention to linger for long.
The quiet clattering of utensils and low drone of the 8 o¡¯clock news served as white noise for his thought organization process, his eyes on the elderly waitress behind the pie display case though not truly seeing her until their stares met.
¡°G¡¯mornin,¡± she greeted him half-heartedly, painted lips a fine line and lazy eye wandering. ¡°You want your usual, Mr. Nottin?¡±
Winston¡¯s gaze remained blank as he worked on comprehending the question. ¡°Winston. Winston Dudley. I just moved here last night,¡± he said awkwardly. ¡°I think you have me confused for someone else.¡±
¡°Mhm,¡± she replied carelessly, resting a rough and flaky elbow against the countertop. ¡°You want your usual or not?¡±
He nodded slightly after some hesitation. ¡°... Okay,¡± he said, lacking the will and energy to combat her conviction and with a swift swing of her hips, she excused herself to the kitchen.
Winston leaned back against the rough patchwork cushion of the booth seat and wove his fingers together, thumbs tapping one another idly as he watched the world beyond the window. He could see the woman in blue that had let herself out earlier make her way to a pickup that was parked across the street and was concerningly more rust than it was vehicle. Her slender fingers fiddled with the keys and promptly dropped them to the dirt with an audible groan of frustration and a loose string of imaginary swears, the tightness and length of her skirt making it difficult for her to lean down far enough to grab them again in the manner of which she was attempting to. As tempted as he was to chuckle at her foible, he couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that she was somehow familiar to him, from the moss of her eyes to the corn silk of her hair, he couldn¡¯t quite place it.
Her success in retrieving her keys was celebrated with a victorious ¡°yes!¡± and at last she regained entry into the truck, the vehicle hacking and sputtering to life and puttering away towards the hills. An amused chuckle was finally yielded from his throat and the moment was bookended by the return of the waitress as she nonchalantly placed a smiley-faced pancake in front of him intended for children.
¡°Enjoy,¡± she said tersely, though Winston was beginning to suspect it was simply her default.
¡°Th-thank you¡¡± he murmured, staring down at the plate in bafflement.
As unfulfilling as he found his impromptu breakfast, the solace of it was far preferable to what he knew he would have to return to, coat wrapped tighter around himself as he shuffled his way back up the hill to the farmhouses. Squinting, he realized that the very same rusted truck was parked in the dirt driveway of the right-neighboring house, the woman having already vanished inside presumably. In front of the left-neighboring house, an elderly couple were tending to the shrubs planted beneath their windows, bickering about something or other that Winston¡¯s cold and tired brain wasn¡¯t compelled to make sense of, only hearing vague words pertaining to slugs.
¡°Good morning,¡± he greeted them out of obligation.
The old woman turned her head, squinting at him from beneath her straw sunhat. ¡°Hiii!¡± she called warmly, wildly waving a hand in his direction. ¡°Are you the new neighbor?¡±
¡°Yeah, just moved in last night,¡± he replied loudly enough for them to hear. ¡°I¡¯m Winston.¡±
¡°It¡¯s nice to meet you!¡± she shouted back. ¡°I¡¯m Macy! This is my husband, John!¡±
¡°Hi, John,¡± Winston said.
¡°Hey,¡± was John¡¯s only contribution, his face scrunched unhappily against the glaring sunlight.
¡°You liking the new house?¡± Macy asked, taking off her gardening gloves.
¡°Yeah, yeah. I mean, we haven¡¯t unpacked yet but we¡¯re getting to that today,¡± Winston said with a shrug and a shiver, beginning to regret initiating a conversation as he was increasingly eager to be indoors. ¡°There¡¯s uh¡ something in the attic leaking. I think a damaged pipe or something.¡±
¡°Ohh, yeah, these old houses have their wear and tear,¡± she said sympathetically. ¡°I¡¯m honestly surprised that house doesn¡¯t have anything worse. Nobody¡¯s lived in it for years.¡±
¡°It shows. I¡¯ve got a lot of cleaning up to do today,¡± Winston chuckled uneasily. ¡°The mice took over the kitchen. I think something died in the drain.¡±
Macy winced. ¡°That¡¯s no good. You let us know if you need any help with that. I can get you the number for the plumber around here. His name is Al. You know Al?¡±
¡°No, I, uh, don¡¯t know Al. But thank you. I¡¯m sure Al does good work.¡±
¡°Al does great work. I¡¯ll find you the number.¡±
¡°Thank you, Macy,¡± Winston said, creeping his way towards his own abode slowly to mark the end of the conversation. ¡°You two have a good one. It was nice to meet you.¡±
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¡°Oh, you, too!¡± Macy chirped.
Turning on his heel, Winston let out a breath he¡¯d apparently been holding and marched to the porch, already hearing Colette¡¯s screams from within. He held his breath once more, bracing himself, and let himself in with a less than enthusiastic ¡°hi, I¡¯m back.¡±
¡°Where were you?¡± Marie¡¯s sharp tone punctured his eardrums and already he could feel his strength oozing from the openings.
Winston pulled the paper bag from his coat, setting it down on the tall box that stood in the entryway. ¡°I was getting the meds, remember?¡±
¡°Why did it take you so long? Do you hear her?¡± Marie asked irritably, attempting to console the troubled child in her arms. ¡°I can¡¯t deal with her and the house by myself.¡±
¡°I stopped to talk to the neighbors,¡± he sighed, taking off his coat to hang. ¡°Macy and John next door. They said they¡¯d give me the number for the plumber to do something about upstairs.¡±
¡°That¡¯s good,¡± Marie murmured. ¡°It¡¯s been driving me crazy all morning. I think it¡¯s time for you to dump the bucket.¡±
¡°I¡¯ll get on it,¡± he muttered, trudging upstairs to investigate the half-full bucket.
¡°I was thinking,¡± Marie piped up as Colette finally quieted down. ¡°Maybe tonight we can do something fun.¡±
¡°Like what?¡± he asked, dragging the bucket downstairs to empty into the kitchen sink.
¡°I don¡¯t know. Go out to eat. Watch a movie. This town¡¯s bound to have a cinema, right?¡±
¡°You want to take Colette into a theater?¡±
¡°Then we¡¯ll watch a movie here after Bill gets here with the furniture. You said he¡¯s coming around noon, right?¡±
¡°That¡¯s what he said,¡± Winston said, putting the bucket back beneath the leak.
¡°Then we¡¯ll wait for Bill and figure something out. It¡¯s not like you¡¯re getting any work on that novel done.¡±
¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡± he asked, propping the now emptied bucket against the edge of the sink.
¡°You know what it means.¡±
¡°I am trying to provide for my family, Marie,¡± he said slowly, bucket clutched as he came to stand in the kitchen archway.
¡°I¡¯m just saying, you could provide by getting a real job that you actually get paid for,¡± Marie said airily, bobbing Colette in her arms.
¡°I will get paid for this. I already signed off on it. I just have to finish it,¡± Winston said.
¡°And when are you going to finish it? Next week? Next year?¡±
¡°When I can. Why don¡¯t you get a job?¡±
¡°Because I already have a job and it¡¯s called being a mother!¡± she snapped. ¡°I have to stay home to take care of Colette!¡±
¡°That¡¯s what nannies are for! That¡¯s what babysitters are for! Your sister offered to babysit plenty of times so you can work! Why don¡¯t you take her up on that?¡±
¡°Because she doesn¡¯t know how to take care of a child! She and Bill don¡¯t have any children; they don¡¯t know how to be parents! How can I trust them with my daughter if the only thing they ever raised was hell in college frat parties?!¡±
¡°Give them a little credit! We¡¯re not in college anymore! They¡¯re perfectly nice and smart people with a nice house and I¡¯m sure they could figure it out just fine!¡±
¡°I don¡¯t want them ¡®figuring it out¡¯ when it comes to my daughter¡¯s safety!¡± Marie hissed. ¡°You know what I think? I think you¡¯re just lazy. I think you¡¯re doing whatever it takes to avoid working a day in your life and you use the excuse of writing your stupid novel to avoid doing so. You make all these promises about all the books you¡¯re going to sell but you haven¡¯t even finished the second!¡±
¡°I¡¯m going to!¡±
¡°It¡¯s been three years, Winston! We can¡¯t keep living on your mother¡¯s handouts and what¡¯s left of the first book¡¯s revenue! It wasn¡¯t even good. Barely anybody bought it.¡±
¡°People wouldn¡¯t have bought it if it wasn¡¯t good,¡± he said through his teeth.
¡°Oh, then let me know when you¡¯re ready to sell the movie rights! Don¡¯t forget us when you¡¯re sitting on your throne at book signings as the world famous author of the world¡¯s dumbest detective series! It¡¯s pathetic how much you cling to this! Why can¡¯t you man up and go out there and work?!¡±
¡°Why can¡¯t you just support me?!¡± Winston shouted, tightening his grip on the bucket as Colette began to cry again, the drip accumulating upstairs and collecting into a new puddle on the floorboards. ¡°I¡¯m trying! I¡¯m doing my best! I¡¯ve been taking care of everything, haven¡¯t I? You always use this motherhood excuse to just sit there and tell me what to do and how bad I am at it! You talk about how you have to take care of Colette, huh? Refuse help because the rest of them aren¡¯t good enough? I think you¡¯re the one who¡¯s afraid to work! You¡¯re barely even a mother, Marie!¡±
¡°You¡¯re barely even a man!¡± she barked. ¡°I do everything for Colette!¡±
¡°You really want to see how much of a man I am? Huh? Do you?¡± he growled, squeezing the bucket.
¡°Drop it, Winston! Just drop it! Drop it!¡±
There came a loud banging at the front door and Marie scoffed, relocating to the other room with the child.
¡°Hey! Everything alright in there?¡± came a man¡¯s voice from outside. ¡°Do I need to call somebody? Hey!¡±
Regaining his composure and setting the bucket down with a deep inhale, Winston made his way to the front door to see the man in the orange shirt standing at his doorstep.
¡°I could hear the screaming from next door,¡± the man said, brows furrowed. ¡°Everything okay?¡±
¡°... Yes,¡± Winston said a bit shakily with a nod. ¡°Yes. Yeah. Everything¡¯s fine. I just got into a little argument with my wife. I¡¯m sorry about that.¡±
¡°No worries. Keep it down next time, yeah?¡± The man gave him a two-fingered salute and backed off of the porch, walking off.
Winston shut the door again with a sigh and turned his attention back to patch up the stairs. The spot in the ceiling had gotten browner, larger, the drip coming faster.
Plip plip plip.
¡°Okay¡ We take care of this first¡¡± he whispered to himself, picking up the bucket and trudging back upstairs to set it back in place.
The smell had only gotten worse, taking everything in Winston¡¯s power not to gag. In some odd way, it was a relief, the nauseating scent of decay overwhelming enough to put his quivering temper on the backburner. The sound of his cell phone ringing was even more of a distraction, welcome until he realized it was Bill that was calling. Swallowing his nerves, he answered.
¡°Hello?¡±
¡°Hey, it¡¯s Bill,¡± Bill¡¯s tired and husky voice came through. ¡°Listen, Lindsay¡¯s asking about the book club or whatever it is she and Marie do. Marie was supposed to give her the week¡¯s recommendations but hasn¡¯t sent it to her yet.¡±
¡°We¡¯ve been a little busy. I¡¯ll tell Marie to get on it,¡± Winston said, scooting the bucket to be more centered beneath the leak.
¡°Thanks. I appreciate it.¡±
¡°Hey, um, how are you and Lindsay?¡± Winston asked, leaning against the wall.
¡°We¡¯re doing alright. Thinking of heading up the coast next summer.¡±
¡°Oh, that sounds nice.¡±
¡°You okay, man? You sound a little off,¡± Bill said.
¡°I¡¯m fine, I¡¯m fine. Marie and I just¡ got into a little spat.¡±
¡°Ahh, say no more. I understand. Just tell her to get that list to Lindsay when she has the chance.¡±
¡°Will do.¡± Winston swallowed. ¡°Hey, uh, Bill? Can I ask you something?¡±
¡°What?¡±
¡°... Never mind. Um. See you later.¡±
¡°Huh? Yeah. Okay. See you.¡±
Winston hung up and rubbed the side of his face, staring balefully up at the stain in the ceiling. It seemed to bend beneath the weight of something and Winston could almost imagine it bursting like a bubble and the flood of stinking fluid jetting down upon him. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine it sweeping him away, down a long river, never to be seen again.
I: The Leak: Part Three
III
¡°Where is he?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know, Marie. He called earlier.¡±
¡°Did he say he was on his way?¡±
¡°He asked about Lindsay¡¯s book club thing with you.¡±
¡°That¡¯s it?¡± Marie stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching Winston stretch duct tape across the bulge in the ceiling. ¡°We need our things, Winston!¡±
¡°He¡¯s your brother, Marie. You should¡¯ve talked to him.¡±
Marie shifted her stance, face a bit scrunched as she observed Winston¡¯s less than professional work, strip by strip. ¡°Is that a good idea? Won¡¯t it still¡ rot up there?¡±
¡°It¡¯s just a temporary fix,¡± Winston replied, biting another strip of tape from the roll.
¡°Shouldn¡¯t you call the plumber?¡±
¡°I still have to get the number from the neighbor and it¡¯s not really in the budget right now anyway after Colette¡¯s medication.¡± He wrung his hands, his fingers beginning to feel numb, and grimaced at the damp, peeling strips.
¡°Maybe the plumber can work off of credit,¡± Marie suggested with a sharp exhale.
¡°We already have credit payments to catch up on. As long as it doesn¡¯t flood the house, we¡¯ll be okay until my next paycheck,¡± Winston said, climbing down from the precariously perched step stool. ¡°We¡¯re out of tape.¡±
¡°Is that in the budget?¡± Marie asked briskly.
¡°I¡¯ll ask the neighbor if they have a roll we can borrow,¡± he said, wiping his hands on his pants and descending to the ground floor to fetch his coat.
¡°Are Macy and John home? I didn¡¯t see a car in their driveway.¡±
¡°We have two neighbors, Marie. I¡¯ll visit the other house. I¡¯ve been meaning to introduce myself anyway,¡± Winston replied, tugging on his coat and giving her a nod before taking his leave.
He trudged up the gravel road towards the house far off to the right of his own where the rusty truck was parked, his heart beating faster in his throat with every step for reasons he couldn¡¯t quite place. It beat as if he was visiting an old friend, it hammered as though he was visiting an old enemy, and it faltered like he was visiting a complete stranger. Regardless of the racing, his strides were sure and steady until he¡¯d reached the rickety wooden porch of the white-sided home with its patchwork of weather worn wounds carving chips into the clapboard and mottle of mud decorating the concrete foundation. The 3 steps creaked in deafening protest as he mounted each and for a moment, Winston was almost worried the loosely bolted overhang would topple onto him any second now.
¡°Ah- um- Hello?¡± he called as he knocked on the side of the mesh storm door with a sense of apprehension. ¡°Sorry, I¡¯m not a solicitor or anything! I live next door! I just moved in and just wanted to ask you something!¡±
¡°I heard you, I¡¯m coming, give me a second!¡± came an impatient female voice from within the house followed by what sounded like something being shoved down the stairs.
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The door was hastily thrown open following the clack of the lock, the blonde woman he¡¯d seen before at the diner standing there with heavy breath and pale flyaways in her face. Her plucked brows furrowed as she looked Winston up and down, confusion written into the details of her delicate features. ¡°Kevin?¡±
¡°Kev- No, my name is Winston Dudley. Sorry if this is a¡ bad time,¡± Winston said, leaning sideways slightly in an attempt to see the cause of the prior ruckus past her and spotting a laundry bin at the bottom of the stairs with its contents strewn across the living room floor.
The woman¡¯s expression was unfaltering for several seconds more before the stillness was broken by a breathless laugh, adjusting her bare footing while her mossy eyes lit with amusement. ¡°Oh, gosh, sorry, you look just like Kevin. That¡¯s too funny.¡±
¡°I¡ saw you coming out of the diner this morning. I didn¡¯t realize you lived next door.¡±
¡°Fancy that, huh?¡± The woman stepped back from the door and picked up her laundry basket, piling the loose articles back into it. ¡°Come in. Take off your shoes. I keep meaning to clean this floor. I haven¡¯t yet but I don¡¯t want more work to do with it so no mud, please.¡±
Winston hesitated but stepped inside, looking about the cluttered house. The floor was piled with newspapers, most stuffed into the fireplace that looked as though it hadn¡¯t been used in years. Dirty plates were stacked in the kitchen sink and on the kitchen table and on a tv tray beside an armchair that was loaded with rumpled laundry. A tower of framed pictures stood beside the still and silent grandfather clock perhaps with the intent to be hung at one point but now sleeping beneath a fine blanket of dust. Boxes of random belongings were scattered throughout the rooms in inconvenient floor locations. Something in the air smelled musty and the rancid stink of the sink¡¯s occupants was difficult to ignore. While it initially surprised Winston for someone so lovely to have such a befouled home, he considered the state of her truck and decided perhaps it wasn¡¯t so surprising. He neglected to take off his shoes, though remained by the door cautiously.
¡°Don¡¯t touch anything; I¡¯m getting to it,¡± the woman warned him, pushing the laundry basket out of the way of the stairs, likely not to be touched again for a long while. ¡°What do you need?¡±
¡°I uh¡ I just came to ask if you had any duct tape I could use. I¡¯m trying to fix something in my ceiling,¡± he said, snapping to attention.
¡°I¡¯m sure I¡¯ve got some of that somewhere,¡± she said, stumbling over the very basket she had just relocated in her hurry to climb the stairs.
As Winston stood awkwardly with his hands in his pockets, he rocked on his heels and tried to ignore the thin wafts of spoiled food that jeered at him from the kitchen. ¡°I don¡¯t think I caught your name, ma¡¯am.¡±
¡°Cheryl,¡± the woman called from upstairs.
¡°It¡¯s nice to meet you, Cheryl.¡±
¡°Oh, for sure.¡±
He hunched his shoulders, burying his neck into the fleece collar of his coat. ¡°Do you live alone, Cheryl? You don¡¯t¡ have a husband or brother or anything? A man wearing orange maybe..? Shaved head?¡±
¡°Why? Are you planning on robbing me? You¡¯ll have to dig pretty deep to find the valuables so you¡¯re better off hitting the general store,¡± she said, returning with a cobwebby roll of duct tape in her hands and holding it out to him proudly.
He accepted it with a note of caution, eyeballing the residue before stuffing it into his coat pocket appreciatively. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t rob you. Don¡¯t worry. Your secret treasure is safe.¡±
¡°You got a wife or sister?¡± she asked, wiping her hands on her dress and propping them on her hips with a somewhat lopsided smile.
Winston studied her face, relaxing his shoulders and opening and shutting his mouth like a gulping fish while he considered his answer. ¡°... No. No, I¡¯m here by myself.¡±
¡°Ah. Mhm.¡± Cheryl nodded. ¡°You know, ever since you made that proposal to Annie Shale in 2nd grade, I can¡¯t think about marriage without hearing little Kevin¡¯s voice saying ¡®I¡¯ll make you the happiest girl in the world because I love you more than aaaanything¡¯.¡±
¡°That wasn¡¯t Annie, that was-¡± Winston shut his mouth, regarding Cheryl with a calculating stare before exhaling sharply. ¡°... Cheryl.¡±
Cheryl grinned broadly. ¡°So you do remember me. I gotta say, Kevin, if you looked this handsome back then, I might¡¯ve said yes. What¡¯s going on, you¡¯re going by Winston now? You moved back into town and didn¡¯t think to visit me? Were you busy preparing a better proposal than the one you gave me in 2nd grade?¡±
¡°No, no, I was just¡ settling in. Like I said through the door, I moved here just yesterday and I¡¯m uh¡¡± He waved the roll of duct tape in the air briefly. ¡°Trying to fix things up with the old house. Something¡¯s leaking in the ceiling.¡±
¡°That house has been through a lot,¡± the woman said with a nod followed by a shake of her head. ¡°I¡¯m sure you have, too. If you wanna swing by, you can at any time. I¡¯ll be here. I¡¯d love to catch up.¡±
Winston nodded back to her. ¡°Yeah. Will do. Uh. Thank you for this.¡±
Cheryl gave him an awkward finger gun. ¡°You owe me.¡±
¡°I¡¯ll keep that in mind.¡± Winston offered her something of a lopsided smile before taking his leave from the house, letting out a shaky breath.
He wanted her to know him. He wished he could linger and talk more. There were things that required more attention, however. She was waiting for him in the house and, as much as he loathed the thought of returning to her at the moment, he¡¯d made this choice. She¡¯d know him eventually, wouldn¡¯t she?
I: The Leak: Part Four
IV
¡°Winston? It¡¯s Bill. Listen, I came by the house but no one was home and Marie still hasn¡¯t called Linds about the stupid book club whatever and Linds says Marie isn¡¯t answering her phone. Y¡¯all go on vacation without telling me? Give me a call back.¡±
Winston sat on his stool positioned in the hallway as he blearily watched the leak run into the bucket seated in front of his knees. The stain had grown and he was beginning to suspect the duct tape was the only thing holding the ceiling up anymore as now several trickles of sludge seeped between the edges of the tape, the drywall bowing low like the gut of a potbellied pig. The sound of the drip had become a dull silence in his ears now, drowned out entirely by the void of his thoughts. His finger idly tapped the side of his phone as he considered Bill¡¯s voicemail.
No one was home?
¡°It¡¯s getting worse, Winston. You need to talk to somebody,¡± Marie sighed from the base of the stairs.
¡°It¡¯s not in the budget,¡± Winston replied bleakly, eyes not leaving the bucket. ¡°Bill said he stopped by but no one was home. Where were you?¡±
¡°I was here. I must not have heard the door while I was in the shower,¡± she said with a frown. ¡°I don¡¯t know why he didn¡¯t stick around or leave a note or something.¡±
Winston didn¡¯t look away from the bucket and Marie placed a hand on her hip, shifting her weight to one foot.
¡°Something needs to be done about this and soon,¡± Marie added. ¡°It¡¯s going to break and ruin everything you tried to fix.¡±
¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± Winston said, getting slowly to his feet and trudging to the door to pick up his coat. ¡°I¡¯m handling everything.¡±
¡°So you say,¡± Marie huffed, watching him let himself out.
Hands tucked warmly into his pockets, the exhausted man strode across the property towards Cheryl¡¯s house, eyes stinging in the biting chill of the breeze in his face. They watered and spilled over on his cheeks and he scrubbed them away with a shuddering exhale. He wasn¡¯t sure how much more of things he could take or for how long these feeble little fixes would last. His wife, his daughter, his book, the money, the house.
That damn house.
They all spoke to him in different ways but none of it was anything he wanted to hear. If it could all be silenced for a moment, if the noises in his head would quiet for just one moment. He was so lost in his thoughts that he felt as though he¡¯d sleepwalked all the way to Cheryl¡¯s door, his own knocking rousing him from his cold and self pitying slumber. The door opened and the woman on the other side greeted him with a familiar smile. It was sunny and welcoming, the entry sign of a lost but happy childhood he long since had missed. This was a future, wasn¡¯t it? A future he couldn¡¯t afford to ruin because it wasn¡¯t his.
¡°Fancy seeing you here,¡± she said, though the ruby-lipped smile faded a bit as she noticed his expression. ¡°You okay?¡±
¡°I¡¯m¡ tired. I¡¯m just tired,¡± he murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose.
¡°Do you want to talk about it?¡± Cheryl asked, holding the door open wider to allow him inside.
¡°About what? My stupid little problems?¡±
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
¡°Sure.¡±
Winston stared past her at the wreckage of her living room, taking the first step into it. A second step did not follow immediately, however. Instead, he pressed one hand to her hip, staring at her contemplatively. It slid up her side and around to her back, the other hand coming to meet it, and he fell to his knees, burying his face into her lap as his breath shuddered and sobbed. Cheryl didn¡¯t pull away, didn¡¯t protest. She only placed a hand on his head and allowed him to weep.
¡°I can¡¯t hide them forever,¡± Winston whispered. ¡°If you don¡¯t find out, someone else will.¡±
¡°Then don¡¯t hide,¡± she replied. ¡°It¡¯s okay. Come in. Let¡¯s talk.¡±
Winston could hear it all throughout the evening. The constant ringing of his phone. It was Bill, asking questions as to where they are, every voicemail more frantic than the last. Curled up now in the corner of what was meant to be Colette¡¯s bedroom, Winston watched the blue screen of his phone light up every few minutes with a hive¡¯s worth of buzzing as it rested on the top of the partially damaged box that sat next to the door. Somewhere in the house, he could hear Colette crying, but he made no move to find her. She was with Marie. Marie was taking care of her. Marie was always taking care of her.
Heavy footsteps came down the stairs as his wife passed the door then backstepped to glare at him in the dark.
¡°Don¡¯t you hear your daughter?¡± she asked briskly.
¡°Don¡¯t you?¡± he replied thickly.
¡°What is wrong with you, Winston?¡± Marie asked coldly. ¡°Why are you acting like this?¡±
¡°Because none of this matters. He¡¯ll come and take care of things for you.¡±
¡°Who? Bill?¡±
Winston said nothing, wiping his nose on his sleeve as the phone kept buzzing. He could only imagine what Bill was screaming at him. Or perhaps it wasn¡¯t Bill calling at all anymore. Either way, he didn¡¯t want to answer it.
¡°What are you doing with your life, Winston?¡± Marie asked, stepping into the room.
¡°I am trying to provide for my family, Marie,¡± he replied.
Plip. Plip. Plip.
It was louder than ever now. Something about these words were familiar, but he couldn¡¯t hear his own thoughts anymore over the sound of the leak that fought not to be ignored any longer.
¡°Since when? When have you ever done anything for this family instead of yourself?¡±
It didn¡¯t make sense anymore.
¡°I¡¯m just saying, you could provide by getting a real job that you actually get paid for,¡± she added.
¡°Why can¡¯t you just support me?¡± he asked shakily, kneading his fingers into his skull until his fingernails scraped his scalp. ¡°I¡¯m trying. I¡¯m doing my best. I¡¯ve been taking care of everything, haven¡¯t I?¡±
But did it ever make sense? It all sounded rehearsed. Something he¡¯d heard or said before.
¡°You always use this motherhood excuse to just sit there and tell me what to do and how bad I am at everything! You talk about how you have to take care of Colette, huh? Yet, you refuse help because the rest of them aren¡¯t good enough. I think you¡¯re the one who¡¯s afraid to work!¡±
There was someone outside. Through the plipping, he could hear that knocking that always came after this argument.
¡°You¡¯re barely even a mother, Marie!¡±
¡°You¡¯re barely even a man!¡± she¡¯d barked. ¡°I do everything for Colette!¡±
The knocking was getting louder.
¡°You really want to see how much of a man I am? Huh? Do you?¡±
He¡¯d proved it, didn¡¯t he?
¡°Drop it, Winston! Just drop it! Drop it!¡±
He remembered how heavy it was in his hand. The quiet clacking of the weapon as it shook in his sweaty grip. Her eyes were wide, weren¡¯t they? As she¡¯d stepped back, clutching their daughter to her chest, her eyes were like moons in the darkness that had begun to swallow him up.
¡°Please, Kevin, don¡¯t do this! Just drop the gun!¡±
But he didn¡¯t, did he?
It was only a matter of time until somebody had found them.
The knocking turned to banging, viscous thumping that demanded his attention, red and blue lights shining beyond the window as his phone rattled itself off of the box with a clunk against the wood. He wondered if Cheryl was standing out there with them, spit-soaked landline dangling from the finger that would point to him once their flashlights lit upon his face like a frigid spotlight. She¡¯d told them everything he told her, didn¡¯t she? He almost didn¡¯t care enough to consider asking. He sniffed once, hugging his knees as he could make out the faint sound of something upstairs.
Plip. Plip. Plip.
Winston pushed himself to his feet.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
His feet carried him up the stairs, squelching and splashing in the stinking puddles that gathered on each. He stared up at the attic hatch, browned and slick, and he reached up to the latch to slide the lock away. The hatch burst open as did the front door and Winston closed his eyes to take in the smell.
Do you remember me?
Someone in the house was rotting.
II: The Empty Road
My ears were ringing as I struggled to catch my breath, the crunching of metal still reverberating around my skull while I dazedly dragged myself away from the steaming wreckage. The air burned in my lungs and I felt as though I¡¯d cough both of them up along with my heart as I violently hacked up the debris until my throat was raw. Spitting what I was sure was a piece of my tooth into my palm, I squinted blearily at the sky through the heat waves, asking myself ¡°where on earth did that billboard come from?¡±
The distraction had only been momentary, but some twisted coincidence enabled me to hit the only billboard I¡¯d even seen on this desert road for miles. Some stupid advertisement for an energy drink I¡¯d never heard of with a slogan along the lines of ¡°you¡¯ll never sleep again!¡± In this instance, I hadn¡¯t dozed off at the wheel but rather had lost my water bottle beneath the passenger¡¯s seat and had leaned over to get it, accidentally apparently jerking the wheel too far to the side and running off of the path that barely qualified as a road anymore with the sheer layers of dust and cracks that consumed the asphalt.
There wasn¡¯t much to do here but pick a direction and limp for it. My right leg was killing me and I had no idea where the nearest rest stop was. Probably a thousand miles away. I had no phone to contact anyone, no booths mercifully placed along the road for wayward travelers. I thought once I found a town, I¡¯d call for someone to find what was left of the car and pick me up, too. That car didn¡¯t really mean all that much to me, if we¡¯re being honest. Some old hunk of junk my dad got off of a used car lot five years ago and thought would be a great birthday gift as if it hid the fact that he just didn¡¯t trust me with a new one. Like when your parents get you a goldfish to practice keeping something alive before they let you get a dog even if they¡¯re vastly different creatures with vastly different needs. A new car didn¡¯t splutter every four miles or need the gear shift jiggled frantically for it to actually shift gears. And yet, I was sure my dad would point to the metallic mess jammed against the base of the billboard and say ¡°see? I KNEW you couldn¡¯t take care of a car!¡±
The atmosphere was smoldering. The heat radiated from above and below. I felt like a waffle baking from both sides and, every few steps or so, I¡¯d stop to check to make sure my shoes weren¡¯t melting. (Spoiler alert, they were a little bit.) I figured the night was bound to be easier and I started to regret not hiding in the car until then, but who knows? Maybe the car was going to explode at any moment and it would¡¯ve been stupid to stay in it. Either way, I was choking on smoke, so it was for the better I didn¡¯t stick around.
The back of my neck was starting to blister by the time the sun went down. I¡¯d been out there, say, a few hours? I was lucky enough that it was the late afternoon when I¡¯d crashed so I didn¡¯t have to be out there the entire day. I would¡¯ve been absolutely boiled otherwise. I was beginning to feel like a farmer-tanned lobster-fied raisin when I stopped to take a break under a tree. It wasn¡¯t much of a tree. It was more like a stick with some more sticks coming out of it that some cruel god jammed here to be a grave marker. But at the absolute least, it was something to lean back against that wasn¡¯t the ground itself and I was kind of grateful for it. My mouth was drier than the dirt that was getting caught in my socks and between my toes and I wished with all my little heart that the air conditioner gods would cut me a break with some mystical scientific marvel of a geyser that shot cold water instead of hot.
¡°Wait, did I leave my drink in the car?¡± I thought to myself unhappily. ¡°Goddammit. I could¡¯ve used that.¡±
I was sitting there for what had to be maybe ten minutes just catching my breath and fanning myself with my shirt when I heard footsteps. Footsteps. All the way out there in the middle of god-knows-where. But when I looked around, I didn¡¯t see anyone. Heat stroke¡¯s a serious thing, you know. Makes you see or hear stuff that isn¡¯t there. That¡¯s what I told myself, anyway. It was either that or some groundhog digging around somewhere, right? Do groundhogs live in the desert? Probably not, actually. What digging thing lives in the desert? Moles? Do moles? I¡¯ve heard of desert cats but I think those are native to, like, Africa or something.
I¡¯m getting off track. Sorry.
The sound started to wig me out, so I got back up and tried to keep going. My feet were absolutely killing me, but I was more worried about having to sleep out here. I was right about the night being better, at least. It cooled off quickly and then I started worrying about getting too cold. My shirt was soaked with sweat and it really didn¡¯t help right now. The heat stroke dying down wasn¡¯t so much a mercy but just tagging out with hypothermia. My wet shirt felt like ice clinging to my back and I held it out in a tented way to keep it off of my skin. I kept thinking about all the ice cream I would eat after I had a hot meal whenever I came to civilization. A cheeseburger and fries. An ice cold glass of iced tea. Then a neapolitan. Whipped cream and a cherry. It made things a thousand times worse for the hungry, thirsty, sweating, shivering feelings in my body, but it at least kept my brain occupied.
And then I started to hear it again.
Just one at a time, one foot in front of the other, clip clop clip clop footsteps somewhere behind me. When I turned around, there still wasn¡¯t anybody there.
You know when you¡¯re a kid and you think something¡¯s there, you have the stupid feeling that if you talk to whatever unknown is in the dark in your room, it¡¯ll be so surprised you know it¡¯s there that it won¡¯t attack like its mission has been compromised? Like it¡¯ll only try to hurt you if you don¡¯t know it¡¯s there, a sneak attack. Or sometimes vice versa. I suddenly found myself yelling ¡°dude, cut it out!¡± by panicked reflex to the nothing behind me. Nothing responded, obviously.
¡°Obviously.¡± You¡¯d think it would be ¡°obviously¡±, right?
It kind of made me feel better. A little bit. I imagine I didn¡¯t sound very threatening, though. It was honestly amazing I could get any more than a tiny croak out with how bone dry my throat was. The thing that started to scare me more was the notion that someone would find me as a piece of jerky by the side of the road by morning.
The sky was a thing to behold, though. I felt sure I could see every single star in the entire galaxy, maybe even the universe itself. I didn¡¯t know a single one of their dad gummed names, but like estranged cousins that come over on a holiday, I greeted them all like we were the closest of friends. I grew up in the city. I never really saw many of those suckers up there. It was just pitch darkness with the ones that were brave enough to peek through the night¡¯s black curtain before inevitably being chased away by the blinding search light of a passing helicopter. If I let my brain wander ahead of me, I could pretend I was in some other magical world and that just before I died, some god or genie or fairy or unnerving merchant would pop up in front of me as if from nowhere and offer me a second chance at life in exchange for some terrible trade that would kickstart a terrifying and amazing adventure. I¡¯d always wanted those sorts of adventures. But sometimes, life was stupid and boring and there wasn¡¯t anything to come out of it. Just stupid and boring.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Hope came when I saw a light in the distance, and I pushed my body to half-limp-half-jog towards it. I had no money, but if it was a gas station, I was prepared to do what I had to with or to the clerk to get me something cold to drink. Imagine my disappointment when I saw it wasn¡¯t any sort of building, but another stupid billboard. One of the bulbs on the left side of it was flickering in a way that bothered my eyes and I squinted to see it was the same dumb ad for that energy drink. You¡¯ll never sleep again, huh? The billboard wasn¡¯t the only thing there, however. I could make out the glint of my car at the base of the billboard. I thought to myself ¡°impossible. This road has no curves. I went in a straight line.¡±
But as I hobbled close, it definitely was my car. Scrunched hood, rusted finish that was probably white once upon a time when this car wasn¡¯t old enough to be considered of historical value. It¡¯d stopped smoking, at least, and I decided to think about what kind of unholy circle I¡¯d walked in later. For now, my priority was crawling into the wonky-shaped opening that used to be the driver¡¯s seat and shoving aside the deflated airbag to find the water bottle that¡¯d nearly gotten me killed somewhere on the floor of the passenger¡¯s seat.
It was disgustingly warm in my hands, but it was something, and I downed half of it like it was just a hot cup of darjeeling, relishing the moisture returning to my esophagus at last.
Okay. It was time to ponder. How on earth would I have walked in a circle to end up back here again? This road went perfectly straight as far as the eye could see. There were no curves, no turns, no loops, no roundabouts that would¡¯ve turned me around. I considered the possibility that maybe in my hot and unfocused state, I¡¯d accidentally walked the wrong way when I got up from the tree, but I could¡¯ve sworn I had walked away from the initial wreck to the other direction. The way I¡¯d walked now was as if I was passing it for the first time.
Maybe I was overthinking, I told myself. I¡¯d just walked the wrong way when I got up. That was my bad and a major waste of time with how long I¡¯d spent walking. I wanted to curl up in the car and take a long, long nap, but the sun would come back and finish baking me alive in the morning so I couldn¡¯t afford it. My legs were shaking, my head was throbbing, and I felt like my feet were bleeding into my socks but I was too scared to check. I just had to keep going. Find a rest stop. Maybe try to dig a hole in the morning to rest in and wait out the daylight. I had half a bottle of warm water left and no food. There had to be something edible in the desert, right?
I wracked my brain trying to think if I¡¯d seen any survivalist shows that involved the desert, but my thoughts were snatched away by that same goddamn sound.
Clip clop clip clop.
I was never quick to believe in ghosts, but I was struggling now to decide between dehydrated delusion and actual demon following me. I couldn¡¯t see anything or anyone around me. Not a person, not an animal. It definitely didn¡¯t sound like digging anymore. When I was young and thought something was lurking in the dark, I used to tell myself ¡°if it wanted to kill or hurt you, it would¡¯ve done so by now¡±. I didn¡¯t even allow myself to consider the possibility that monsters might want to toy with me first.
I kept my eyes wide, hoping (or not hoping) to catch some sort of movement in the moon-soaked dirt, and limped my way along the road much slower than before. Every step was agony. I was more exhausted than I¡¯d ever been in my life. I was certain that my leg wasn¡¯t broken, but I¡¯d sprained something in the crash. I tried to imagine that I was riding a scooter or segue and just coasting along to give my brain the illusion of a rest, but it kept getting distracted by the impulse to glance behind me every few seconds.
¡°There¡¯s nothing THERE,¡± I growled to myself. ¡°Stop working yourself up!¡±
I wanted to hum just to have some other noise, but I refrained. I¡¯d read somewhere that talking or even humming or breathing too much depletes moisture in your body. I tried to pretend that there was a radio in my brain playing all the hits with my best approximation of the lyrics. I was about halfway through some wonked rendition of a title I¡¯d always assumed was ¡°Age Old Mountain High Enough¡± when I heard it a lot closer than before. Really close. Too close to be an imaginary sound.
I panicked for a second and stumbled forward in a half-assed effort to run on barely functional feet and spun around to look behind me, expecting to see a zombie or a man with a knife or a creepy little girl also with a knife, but there still wasn¡¯t anything there. My heart was beginning to beat so fast and I did my best to swallow despite my mouth being full of sand.
I¡¯d definitely heard that, right? That was real, right? What I wouldn¡¯t have given for a car- ANY car- to pass by. I¡¯d¡¯ve taken my chances with whatever creep or serial killer was at the wheel if it meant getting off of this road. Turning my head, I saw lights up ahead and, willing with every fiber of my being for it to be salvation, I limped faster than before despite the pain coursing through my body like nails were being driven into my heels with every step.
You¡¯ll never sleep again!
That stupid fucking billboard again. The same one with the flickering light on the left side and tacky orange energy drink can plastered against a white background. The compressed vehicle sleeping soundly on the ground, some dark blob leaked beneath it. Oil probably. Or some other car fluid I didn¡¯t know how to identify. I wanted to cry, but I was too exhausted to. I sank into the seat, glad to have the softness of it to sit on, and tried to come up with some sort of plan, but I had nothing.
Nothing at all.
This was my third time in this spot today. I was certain, 100% confident, that I had gone in a straight line. I hadn¡¯t stopped this time. I didn¡¯t get confused and turn around. The road. Had. No. Turns. It was just a long, straight, empty road. Something cold gripped my throat as I thought to myself ¡°holy crap. I¡¯m going to die here.¡±
I couldn¡¯t walk anymore. I just freaking couldn¡¯t. I was so tired and in so much pain. I downed the last of my water in one shot. Making it last in little bits wasn¡¯t going to help anything. I remembered that much from the survivalist. It was better to be well hydrated at once and then slowly dehydrate again than consistently be dehydrated and kept alive with sips at a time. As if this amount of water was even going to hydrate me with how much I¡¯d lost into my shirt throughout the day.
Maybe in the morning, I could make a sign right? Put some sort of sign on the road that asked for help and if I was lucky, some passerby would see it and realize I wasn¡¯t trying to lure them into a trap. It was comforting to picture the paramedics arriving and some blurry-faced person telling me that I was going to make it. I¡¯d wake up in the hospital after a short coma and my dad would throw his arms around me, thankful I was alive, and then cut the moment short by berating me about the state of the car. I¡¯d get some physical therapy for my leg and turn my experience into a book to sell a million copies of. Or at least I¡¯d have something interesting to say to a complete stranger on a bus.
I closed my eyes. I just needed to rest.
And there it was again.
Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop.
I didn¡¯t even bother to open my eyes this time. As I could hear it come closer and closer, my mind wandered to a science lesson in 5th grade. Humans weren¡¯t known for their size or their speed or their strength. They couldn¡¯t fly at all and their swimming was weak. When it came to the rest of the animal kingdom, there wasn¡¯t much humans actually beat in a skill other animals were known for. Except endurance. It was how humans managed to take down larger things. They followed it until it couldn¡¯t run anymore, hiding out of sight until it was time to strike. Humans could span great distances, slowly but surely, walk all day and track their prey for miles. Tenacious things, humans were. Determined to survive.
I felt like the buffalo or mammoth or whatever early humans hunted to the brink. Taking a rest and hoping it was safe. If the thing was going to kill me, it was going to kill me. That was that and there wasn¡¯t much left for me to do about it. Sleep was going to be the end of me. But I was just¡ so tired.
Ironically, I kind of wished I had that energy drink.