Alright so the way I figure this I'm unusually bored, unable to sleep (nothing new), relatively stoned, and figured why the hell not. Let's have story corner! So here's the way I'm going about this, I write short fiction, non-fiction, historical fiction, and blahblahblah yaddayaddayadda. Since these tend to be a bit on the longer side I figured I'll post them in parts. Read it over, if you (who am I kidding not many if any are reading this, I see the lack of followers and that's understandable given there are far more attractive prospects on this site) like it then read the next installment. Sometimes I'll post things I'm actively working, sometimes I'll work out things in the act of posting (that's gotta be fun and somewhat interesting, regardless the amount it of juice the fruit produces), sometimes I'll toss up stuff that's relatively polished and looking for a general publisher. Why am I doing this? Boredom. And the hope that some asshat won't come steal it. So. Someone will steal it. Friggen asshats. Also my lack of being able to cut and paste makes this process a pain in my ass. So freakin' enjoy it.
Without making you read more of my blather here we go, "Draft in Progress" part one.
"Draft in Progress"
My hands feel damp and cold from gripping the edge of the toilet. The water is clear with only white foam drifting lazily on the surface. I stare at the thin layering and briefly think that was all I had in my stomach. Pushing slowly up my reddened and glassy eyes catch me attention in the mirror and I think about how many days are left until the end of the semester. How much longer I have to try and be perfect while feeling in my stomach that I am inadequate and do not belong.
I was out my mouth with water and tip the small, delicate, paper cup against my face and beard. The coolness helps to distract me from my concerns. Hands run over the bulge of my stomach before I walk out of the bathroom. I leave the cup where it remains. It is too delicate to crush and my nerves are to tense to remember to throw it away.
At my desk I slump down and stare at the glowing screen of my computer. Words are strewn across the white that recognize as my own. My name is in black at the top of the document. For a moment I feel paralyzed and unable to move staring at that declaration of myself. These do not feel like my words. They do not feel like me. They are sterile and emotionless, structured and formatted to specific guidelines so they create something that is part of a genre I feel disconnected from. How do others write academic papers? Do they just sit down and write them?
My hands lay across the keyboard before they begin to move. I begin to write without thinking about writing. My thoughts have gone elsewhere. They have fled to the past and dredged up the memories that always come when my fingers touch the keys.
*****
My brother's fiancée Jeanine steps through my door with a look upon her face that demands attention. "Your brother needs to go to the hospital."
I am not surprised by this revelation. He is sick and his body is slowly rejecting life. This has not been a fast process but a slow and eroding one. My family has been annexed to a viewing room where we have watched him turn from an energetic and uncontrollable genius into an exhausted shell of who he once was. We count Bob's breaths knowing his body has few left. I think many times about how tragic endings that happen suddenly are somehow easier. They must be. People who experience an unexpected death do have to witness what those who watch do.
"What's happening?" My question comes out stilted. I sound like I am trying too hard to be concerned.
"He's had a bleed, you didn't notice?"
"I've been in here all night, the door's been open. I thought...."
"You thought? You never went and checked on him?"
"He's right next door to me I would have...."
"You would have what, John?"
"Heard something. I would have heard something if he was having problems."
She rolls her eyes at me and shakes her head. I know I have always been a disappointment to those around me. My mother was a successful early childhood educator. My father is a successful lawyer at a local corporate law firm. My brother became a known artist with offers from across the nation to attend graduate school. I am the failure who spent his childhood and young adult life trying to escape their reality.
I get out of my chair and follow her. Something compels me. Perhaps my own curiosity pulls me across the threshold into the hall. Perhaps Jeanine's grip on my shirt-sleeve. I want to give credit to concern for my brother but I know the reality is stark and different.
"What happened?"
The words are barely out of my mouth before Jeanine shoves a mop into my hands and tells me she is taking my brother to the emergency room. She leaves me with two orders: call my parents and clean the bathroom. This means I will be the harbinger of bad news. The instruction is obvious. My parents need to know that Bob is being taken to the hospital. They will want to know where they can find him to begin the next week of vigil by his bedside. The second demand is out of place. Clean the bathroom? Is this punishment for not paying closer attention? That is, after-all, the job entrusted to me when everyone left us alone.
Turning from the top of the staircase I step into the bathroom and pause.
The floor is glazed in a pristine, glistening, coat of dark, opaque, red. Red ran from the toilet seat to the floor and then spread to the threshold with every intention of escaping into the newly renovated hall. My stomach twists.