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Too Little Sleep, Too Active Mind

Come on, Trent. Just write it. It doesn’t have to make sense, and you don’t always have to analyze it. That’s for the critics. Give it to them and let them sort it out. Just open your fists and let it out your head:

He stared down into the soupy, black coffee darkness, the faint foam from the coursing tide below giving some indication that the world below him wasn’t a void. He shivered again as a low howling wind blew both up the cliff face and across the empty, overgrown lot behind him. His hands trembled as he fumbled in his jacket to fish out a pack of cigarettes and his lighter. The scratching flicks of the disposable lighter couldn’t bring the butane within to life. The wind was too strong. He stood there a moment, gritting his teeth over the cigarette, trying desperately to contain his rage, his frustration. He twisted his body a quarter turn and tried the lighter again. Twisted again, pulling the collar of his jacket up, he flicked the lighter. The flicking became frantic, sparks flew from the bic as he pumped his thumb up and down the steel wheel. Finally, the cigarette caught enough of the flame to cast his face in a faint orange glow as he breathed deep the harsh, thick smoke. He looked back over the cliff, pulling the misshapen cigarette from his lips and absently stuffed the lighter back into his hip pocket. Time ticked in his head, his thoughts as dark and shapeless as the vague surf below, pounded in his brain like water on the rocks. His breathing took the rhythm of the dark waves, inhaling and exhaling, putting the smoke in his mouth every third or fourth breath.

Black clouds rolled over his head, but they were as obscure in the darkness as the waterfront below. The heavy overcast blocked what would have been a quarter moon and the stars. The chill in the air hinted at winter, even though it was only September. Water is a liar, he thought. The water below and the pregnant clouds above chilled him as he shivered again. He pulled the cigarette from his lips, this time taking one long pull from it. As he exhaled a sigh, he flicked the smouldering butt over the edge and watched it drift on the wind currents until it disappeared into that blackness below.

He turned away from the cliff then, walked back across the empty lot. The lights of the city blinked hazily in the distance, as he dragged his feet across the gravel, kicking at the odd loose stone. He sighed again as he looked up and approached the pale green oldsmobile parked at the far end of the lot. He pulled the heavy door open, creaking loudly under it’s own weight and lack of maintenance and years of being driven in the humid city. In the glow of the overhead light, he sat down and propped his arm against the steering wheel. He pulled the pack of cigarettes from his pocket again and patted himself, looking for his lighter. One leg out of the vehicle, sitting limply in the driver’s seat, he stared back out at the cliff and squinted as he smoked the cigarette. His pulse was pounding in his head, his eyes seemed to throb in the sockets and he closed his eyes tight and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to force out the pressure.

Opening the front of his coat, he reached inside the breast pocket and pulled out an old pair of glasses. They were too big for him, and any casual observer might have said they didn’t suit him. Never the less, he placed them across his face and stared out again at the cliff. Things didn’t come into focus for him, as he only squinted harder. “Fuck,” he said quietly to himself, dropping the cigarette out the door and pulling himself out of the car. He reached back to the wheel and pulled the tangle of keys from the ignition, shaking them to hear the sound of clinking; something other than the pounding of his head. Leaving the car door open, he walked around the body. He rubbed his eyes again, under his glasses and caught a loose rock with his toes. Stumbling and dropping the keys, he fell to one knee and cursed loudly. The profanity echoed back at his from somewhere, but only faintly above the wind. He put one hand against the rough gravel and braced the other against the car, retrieved the keys and pushed himself back up. He brushed his hand across his pant leg, shaking off the small rocks that embedded in his palm. He limped a little as he made his way to the back of the car, and put the key into the lock

The massive lid opened, and he stared into the trunk, stained carpet and the stink of mildew assaulted him. He reached in and pulled out a red jerry can. It sloshed unevenly in his grip, his arm straining as he pulled it from the trunk. He shivered again as he unscrewed the lid. His eyes stared to water slightly, his expression twisted into a bizarre grin. He started to sob, his shoulders rising and falling.

He took the jerry can in both hands and started to pour out the gasoline into the trunk, the strong fumes killing out the must of the car. He dropped the can into the trunk when he couldn’t hold it any longer, his body suddenly lost of all strength. He collapsed to his knees, put his hands to his face and cried out loud. Tears ran out under his palms, the glasses fell to the ground and he heaved and heaved. The wind blew around him as he knelt there until his legs finally went numb and his eyes went dry. He gritted his teeth again and forced himself to stand, pushing himself up from the rusted bumper. He picked up the oversized glasses and placed them in the trunk, next to the black bundle. He paused then, his hand pressed against the black plastic bundle, and his eyes began to tear again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking. He pulled out his lighter again, this time putting it to the gasoline in the trunk. Thick smoke poured out of the car as the back of it flamed. He backed away from the car and was only vaguely aware of the blue BMW that roared into the lot behind him.

He stood there, his body drooped, bathed in the light of the flames in front of him and the mechanical light of the headlights from behind. The door of the new car flew open as a taller man jumped out. “You son of a bitch!” The taller man ran across the gravel, his appearance still not noted by the other. “What the fuck did you do?” The newcomer shook him violently. He stood there, his eyes red and unfocussed, staring sadly at the taller man. “What did you fucking do? Answer me damn it!”

“It’s too late,” he said almost silently, looking back at the blazing car. “You’ll never see her again.” He cried again, and if not for the taller man holding him up, he would have collapsed completely. The taller man stared, his eyes wide as the car burned. Anger flashed across his face as he raised a fist and punched the weeping rag doll in his arms. Wind pushed out of his body, and no longer supported by the taller man, he fell on his side to the gravel.

“You crazy bastard, you have no idea, do you?” The taller man stood over him, his fists clenched and he kicked him hard in the stomach. “You don’t even know what you’ve done, do you?” The tall man kicked him again. He didn’t cry now, he couldn’t. He couldn’t even breathe. “You want her to yourself so bad, do you?”

Kick.

“You want to keep her from me so much?”

Kick.

“You’d rather see her destroyed than share her with anyone else?”

Kick. Kick. Kick.

He didn’t cry anymore. He didn’t even move. The fury of the taller man had finally finished him, having come so close to finishing himself. He died at the feet of the taller man.

The newcomer stopped kicking when he realized the man had died. The fury went out of his face and panic started to set in. It was only momentary. He crafted a plan in his head and quickly went to work. Pulling the limp body from the ground, he carried it to the flaming car, forcing himself to ignore the furnace-like heat and thick, chocking smoke. He flung the body of the dead man roughly toward the trunk, managing to only get the top half of the lifeless wretch into it. He reached out, straining to keep as far from the flames as possible, trying to push the body the rest of the way into the trunk. He gave up, unable to get close enough to the fire, and backed away, staring at the grotesque scene before him: the pale green oldsmobile blackening as the flames spread, black smoke and a dead body hanging from the torso out of the back.

The tall man went back to his car, taking out a pen and paper and began to write the other’s last words:

I take my life now, and the paintings my wife had done. No man will ever sell her vision.

posted by September @ 11:41 AM