Story 7: Finally Going Out
Prologue
Tired remembrance of the cruel fixations of evil thoughts.
Torn, cast aside, framed in the inner-most regions of my soul,
As the freezing hands of remorse come to collect their bounty,
The thoughts once again turn to the chromium-silver color of my own demise...
Once again, free, free to start a new life, free to move on, into the after world,
Almost as if the only way out was actually the only way in,
I beg the gods, let me start again,
With this blast I do end that which I begun,
The tilting, spinning cluster of pain which I feel only for a second,
Slowly becomes a mass of numbness,
Filters out of my spine and runs into nowhere.
The trigger was ice cold,
Soon warm with my blood,
Which runs profusely out of where my brain once was,
Does its wrath never end?
I shall be no longer contained,
I shall tear the shackles from my wrists as I did tear the life from this body,
No one left to impress,
No one left to love,
As if I was ever loved in return?
Never again to see the light of day,
only eternal darkness,
An abyss of hatred and anger,
Feeling coveted be all spirits,
But not me,
I only wish release.
Finally Going Out
A knock on the door is all it took and that is all I needed to prevent all this. If only I had reached up with this now dead hand and knocked on the door that is now shut and locking me in. If only my thoughts would not have wandered and my ideas had not been so overanxious. If only I had knocked. A knock on the door is all it took.
But regrets are simple and utterly useless, and memories of what could have been are merely a part of the imagination. We are who we are because of our regrets and our imagination, but this does not matter. Whatever our regrets are they shape us, give us ideas, and teach us what is right, what is wrong, and what is safe. Our imagination shapes our hope and our willingness to continue. Eventually we all die and with our death die all our regrets. And with our death the world loses our imagination and our lessons. If only death could become a regret, then we could imagine it better (if only regret was real and imagination useful). But they are neither real nor useful and that is why I die here; still regretting, still imagining, and still dying.
How this happened is not regret or imagination. It is real, I remember it, and these memories plague me.
For the first time in months I had a date, not just any date, but a date with a woman that no man ever expects will say yes to. I prepared myself as I recalled her every detail. Her hair was thick and soft like the smooth touch of delicate fur between your fingers. Its wave was a summer breeze on a cool lake. It was hair that seemingly belonged on display in a salon. Framed by the long, lovely mane, her face was artwork. Nature’s hands had molded perfection, with cheekbones that delicately pushed on her skin, causing a half smile to ever so gently penetrate her face all the time-it was stunning. Her eyes were wondrous and alive. One night I saw her looking up at the stars and I recalled the words of Shakespeare. “Two of the fairest stars in all the heavens having some business to entreat her eyes to twinkle in their spheres.” For truly her eyes did twinkle with far more luminance than any of the stars or planets. Her neck was beautiful, each line of it and the way that it caressed her shoulders created nothing less than perfection. And yet all those physical attributes aside the best feature of her face, and of herself as a whole, was her smile. It could not only light up a room when she walked in, but it could beautify it. A smile from her renewed my day no matter how long or difficult. I would have walked on water just to see the radiance of her smile. In detail the rest of her was gorgeous. As a whole she was “the reason cavemen chiseled on walls.” It was everything about her, the way she walked, the way she smiled, and her inviting disposition. She was without a doubt the most beautiful woman I had ever seen or will ever see. Despite all this I did not love her. Perhaps because I did not allow myself to try, or perhaps because I did not want to interfere with what I had. I got to look at her each and every day. That alone made me grateful to be alive.
I never imagined that she would ever take an interest in me. This is why I did not catch the hints and the subtlety that hinted her attraction. I did not notice the extra second of eye contact, or the smile and conversation that came out of nowhere. And so she hinted, and so I ignored. And finally, she was done. She pulled me aside one day when no one else was around.
“What’s it going to take?” she asked. Then, with a quickness that I could not avoid, she kissed me. It was just a peck on the lips but it was a kiss none the less. “There” she said “are you finally going to ask me on a date now? Is that hint blunt enough for you?”
I was stunned and stupefied. I didn’t know what to do. So I did the only thing possible. “Umm; dinner, Thursday sound ok?”
“Ok” she said with the perkiest of smiles “pick me up at nine.”
So then I had a date. A real date with a gorgeous woman. I would take her out to a fancy restaurant. I would wine her and dine her. Then I would take her home, kiss her good night, and hope that the respect I had offered would earn me another date.
I prepared myself that night (this night) to the point of over obsessiveness. I took an hour in the shower scrubbing and cleaning, cleaning and scrubbing. Next I combed my hair, obviously a daily practice but not in the way that I combed it on this night (for all the good it did it now). I used three different types of combs taking every precaution to get every tangle and knot out of my hair and placed into perfect position atop my head. Following this I cleaned my teeth with the diligence of a man on a mission. When I shaved it was whisker by whisker. It was crucial that I look my best for the woman that could never look anything but absolutely fabulous. My outfit was neatly pressed, and the shine on my shoes sprinkled sunlight in all directions. Finally I was ready.
I was on my way to her house on that humid summer night. I walked out the front door of my house and with each stride toward the car my heels hit a little bit harder, and my heart pounded a little louder. I had broken into a cold sweat by the time I reached the car. The night air was thick and hard to swallow. With each breath and the added anticipation of the night I felt so very suffocated-if only I had recognized that sign. In the car on the way there I rehearsed my lines. I thought of an appropriate answer to most possible questions, and appropriate questions that would seem interesting and insightful. I would ask her about the intricacies of her job and what types of interests she had. I would comment and listen and be the perfect gentleman. It was the least I could do for such a perfect lady. The drive both calmed and excited me, I felt that things would go well, but I couldn’t wait for the night to start. And then I arrived.
But now I turn to imagination. For what I am about to say is not memory and is therefore completely useless. I describe this, not as I remember it, but as I wish it could have happened and how I regret that it did not happen. Thus, I will make this useless description as simple as regret itself.
In this moment as I lie here with nothing else to do but imagine and regret, I can see how it should have happened. I would have walked along the sidewalk and up to the front porch. Upon reaching the front steps of the porch I would have stepped up and knocked sharply three times. There would have been a pause and then she would have called out telling me to wait just one minute. Three minutes later there would have been another call at the door telling me to come in and have a seat while she quickly washed up. And soon we would have been off.
Instead, I lie here staring at white knuckles that once had such possibilities. Knuckles that have been whitened, not by fear, but because of the lack of skin and blood, and the exposure of pure white bone. Knuckles that could have saved me. Knuckles that I regret did not. Knuckles that I imagine knocking on that front door again and again. But I did not knock, and for that I have paid a dear price.
As I walked up the sidewalk, and towards the front steps, excitement became my ultimate demise. My steps were heavy and my forehead beaded unwanted sweat. I wiped the sweat and tried to calm my heartbeat, but it was all for not. As I wiped my forehead more water formed. As I took deep breaths my adrenaline began to pump. By the time I had reached the steps of the front porch nervousness and excitement had mixed into ooze in my mind. At each step I had to swallow hard as I made my way up the steps one by one. When I reached the door I was so excited and I had so much adrenaline flowing through my veins that I swung the door open and there she was.
The sight that greeted me was nothing that I ever would have expected and everything that I could have treaded. There she was, kneeling over her mother (a woman I had seen but once before and who I recognized instantly). In her hand she held a kitchen knife extended into the air parallel to the floor and preparing to send another deep plunge into her mother’s open stomach. As the blood rising in her mother’s throat muffled the screams.
And as I stared, she looked, and it was then that useless regret flowed over me and simple solutions ran through my imagination. If I had not been so excited I would have waited. If I had waited, I would have thought. If I had thought, I would have knocked. If only I had knocked I would not be dying.
She leapt at me. Her once soft flowing hair was now tangled into a mass of knots held together by thick, fresh blood. Her face had lost all sense of smile. Her body leapt towards me with knife raised. I was too stunned to move as the knife gouged my stomach and tore skin from my legs. My hands came up in automatic defense to the pain, and I fell back as she slashed at my face and took all the flesh from the out turned hands which sheltered it. Then it tore flesh from my legs and took skin from my hands. As she now prepares to deliver the killing blow I create myself. A useless and simple creature about to be relieved of those regrets and drenched in that imagination. Yet it still forms who I am for these last few moments. And my true, simple, and useless regret is seeing that last imagined smile upon her face before I am freed of this burden that I imagine myself having.
Epilogue
Her diary entry later that night.
June 29th- Oh diary what have I done? I mean sure mom deserved it with all that she has put me through but in my rage I also killed Jerry. You remember Jerry right? That handsome clean shaven fellow. I was almost through with mom and he walked through the door. In all the excitement I didn’t realize who it was and I just... I can’t even think about it. I really liked him too. I guess what I should be worrying about is what’s going to happen when he doesn’t show up to work tomorrow. I wish he hadn’t come in like that. We could have had such a good time tonight too. Well I’ll update you tomorrow diary goodbye for now.
Tired remembrance of the cruel fixations of evil thoughts.
Torn, cast aside, framed in the inner-most regions of my soul,
As the freezing hands of remorse come to collect their bounty,
The thoughts once again turn to the chromium-silver color of my own demise...
Once again, free, free to start a new life, free to move on, into the after world,
Almost as if the only way out was actually the only way in,
I beg the gods, let me start again,
With this blast I do end that which I begun,
The tilting, spinning cluster of pain which I feel only for a second,
Slowly becomes a mass of numbness,
Filters out of my spine and runs into nowhere.
The trigger was ice cold,
Soon warm with my blood,
Which runs profusely out of where my brain once was,
Does its wrath never end?
I shall be no longer contained,
I shall tear the shackles from my wrists as I did tear the life from this body,
No one left to impress,
No one left to love,
As if I was ever loved in return?
Never again to see the light of day,
only eternal darkness,
An abyss of hatred and anger,
Feeling coveted be all spirits,
But not me,
I only wish release.
Finally Going Out
A knock on the door is all it took and that is all I needed to prevent all this. If only I had reached up with this now dead hand and knocked on the door that is now shut and locking me in. If only my thoughts would not have wandered and my ideas had not been so overanxious. If only I had knocked. A knock on the door is all it took.
But regrets are simple and utterly useless, and memories of what could have been are merely a part of the imagination. We are who we are because of our regrets and our imagination, but this does not matter. Whatever our regrets are they shape us, give us ideas, and teach us what is right, what is wrong, and what is safe. Our imagination shapes our hope and our willingness to continue. Eventually we all die and with our death die all our regrets. And with our death the world loses our imagination and our lessons. If only death could become a regret, then we could imagine it better (if only regret was real and imagination useful). But they are neither real nor useful and that is why I die here; still regretting, still imagining, and still dying.
How this happened is not regret or imagination. It is real, I remember it, and these memories plague me.
For the first time in months I had a date, not just any date, but a date with a woman that no man ever expects will say yes to. I prepared myself as I recalled her every detail. Her hair was thick and soft like the smooth touch of delicate fur between your fingers. Its wave was a summer breeze on a cool lake. It was hair that seemingly belonged on display in a salon. Framed by the long, lovely mane, her face was artwork. Nature’s hands had molded perfection, with cheekbones that delicately pushed on her skin, causing a half smile to ever so gently penetrate her face all the time-it was stunning. Her eyes were wondrous and alive. One night I saw her looking up at the stars and I recalled the words of Shakespeare. “Two of the fairest stars in all the heavens having some business to entreat her eyes to twinkle in their spheres.” For truly her eyes did twinkle with far more luminance than any of the stars or planets. Her neck was beautiful, each line of it and the way that it caressed her shoulders created nothing less than perfection. And yet all those physical attributes aside the best feature of her face, and of herself as a whole, was her smile. It could not only light up a room when she walked in, but it could beautify it. A smile from her renewed my day no matter how long or difficult. I would have walked on water just to see the radiance of her smile. In detail the rest of her was gorgeous. As a whole she was “the reason cavemen chiseled on walls.” It was everything about her, the way she walked, the way she smiled, and her inviting disposition. She was without a doubt the most beautiful woman I had ever seen or will ever see. Despite all this I did not love her. Perhaps because I did not allow myself to try, or perhaps because I did not want to interfere with what I had. I got to look at her each and every day. That alone made me grateful to be alive.
I never imagined that she would ever take an interest in me. This is why I did not catch the hints and the subtlety that hinted her attraction. I did not notice the extra second of eye contact, or the smile and conversation that came out of nowhere. And so she hinted, and so I ignored. And finally, she was done. She pulled me aside one day when no one else was around.
“What’s it going to take?” she asked. Then, with a quickness that I could not avoid, she kissed me. It was just a peck on the lips but it was a kiss none the less. “There” she said “are you finally going to ask me on a date now? Is that hint blunt enough for you?”
I was stunned and stupefied. I didn’t know what to do. So I did the only thing possible. “Umm; dinner, Thursday sound ok?”
“Ok” she said with the perkiest of smiles “pick me up at nine.”
So then I had a date. A real date with a gorgeous woman. I would take her out to a fancy restaurant. I would wine her and dine her. Then I would take her home, kiss her good night, and hope that the respect I had offered would earn me another date.
I prepared myself that night (this night) to the point of over obsessiveness. I took an hour in the shower scrubbing and cleaning, cleaning and scrubbing. Next I combed my hair, obviously a daily practice but not in the way that I combed it on this night (for all the good it did it now). I used three different types of combs taking every precaution to get every tangle and knot out of my hair and placed into perfect position atop my head. Following this I cleaned my teeth with the diligence of a man on a mission. When I shaved it was whisker by whisker. It was crucial that I look my best for the woman that could never look anything but absolutely fabulous. My outfit was neatly pressed, and the shine on my shoes sprinkled sunlight in all directions. Finally I was ready.
I was on my way to her house on that humid summer night. I walked out the front door of my house and with each stride toward the car my heels hit a little bit harder, and my heart pounded a little louder. I had broken into a cold sweat by the time I reached the car. The night air was thick and hard to swallow. With each breath and the added anticipation of the night I felt so very suffocated-if only I had recognized that sign. In the car on the way there I rehearsed my lines. I thought of an appropriate answer to most possible questions, and appropriate questions that would seem interesting and insightful. I would ask her about the intricacies of her job and what types of interests she had. I would comment and listen and be the perfect gentleman. It was the least I could do for such a perfect lady. The drive both calmed and excited me, I felt that things would go well, but I couldn’t wait for the night to start. And then I arrived.
But now I turn to imagination. For what I am about to say is not memory and is therefore completely useless. I describe this, not as I remember it, but as I wish it could have happened and how I regret that it did not happen. Thus, I will make this useless description as simple as regret itself.
In this moment as I lie here with nothing else to do but imagine and regret, I can see how it should have happened. I would have walked along the sidewalk and up to the front porch. Upon reaching the front steps of the porch I would have stepped up and knocked sharply three times. There would have been a pause and then she would have called out telling me to wait just one minute. Three minutes later there would have been another call at the door telling me to come in and have a seat while she quickly washed up. And soon we would have been off.
Instead, I lie here staring at white knuckles that once had such possibilities. Knuckles that have been whitened, not by fear, but because of the lack of skin and blood, and the exposure of pure white bone. Knuckles that could have saved me. Knuckles that I regret did not. Knuckles that I imagine knocking on that front door again and again. But I did not knock, and for that I have paid a dear price.
As I walked up the sidewalk, and towards the front steps, excitement became my ultimate demise. My steps were heavy and my forehead beaded unwanted sweat. I wiped the sweat and tried to calm my heartbeat, but it was all for not. As I wiped my forehead more water formed. As I took deep breaths my adrenaline began to pump. By the time I had reached the steps of the front porch nervousness and excitement had mixed into ooze in my mind. At each step I had to swallow hard as I made my way up the steps one by one. When I reached the door I was so excited and I had so much adrenaline flowing through my veins that I swung the door open and there she was.
The sight that greeted me was nothing that I ever would have expected and everything that I could have treaded. There she was, kneeling over her mother (a woman I had seen but once before and who I recognized instantly). In her hand she held a kitchen knife extended into the air parallel to the floor and preparing to send another deep plunge into her mother’s open stomach. As the blood rising in her mother’s throat muffled the screams.
And as I stared, she looked, and it was then that useless regret flowed over me and simple solutions ran through my imagination. If I had not been so excited I would have waited. If I had waited, I would have thought. If I had thought, I would have knocked. If only I had knocked I would not be dying.
She leapt at me. Her once soft flowing hair was now tangled into a mass of knots held together by thick, fresh blood. Her face had lost all sense of smile. Her body leapt towards me with knife raised. I was too stunned to move as the knife gouged my stomach and tore skin from my legs. My hands came up in automatic defense to the pain, and I fell back as she slashed at my face and took all the flesh from the out turned hands which sheltered it. Then it tore flesh from my legs and took skin from my hands. As she now prepares to deliver the killing blow I create myself. A useless and simple creature about to be relieved of those regrets and drenched in that imagination. Yet it still forms who I am for these last few moments. And my true, simple, and useless regret is seeing that last imagined smile upon her face before I am freed of this burden that I imagine myself having.
Epilogue
Her diary entry later that night.
June 29th- Oh diary what have I done? I mean sure mom deserved it with all that she has put me through but in my rage I also killed Jerry. You remember Jerry right? That handsome clean shaven fellow. I was almost through with mom and he walked through the door. In all the excitement I didn’t realize who it was and I just... I can’t even think about it. I really liked him too. I guess what I should be worrying about is what’s going to happen when he doesn’t show up to work tomorrow. I wish he hadn’t come in like that. We could have had such a good time tonight too. Well I’ll update you tomorrow diary goodbye for now.
posted by David Fuchs (Greg Goble) @ 9:51 PM
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