As you may or may not know, 2DT constantly challenges us writers to write a story including a phrase he makes up on his fridge. I decided to try and participate this time. Look away if you don’t like bad fiction.
Have you ever felt like you were floating? Not from joy, but from sadness. It is an overwhelming feeling. Your limbs feel numb, you feel defenceless and helpless, as you bump from object to object in your near-drunken stupor, trying desperately not to float off into the endless velvet.
The Lounge Lizards stream through the speakers, as though to set a score to this miserable scene, albeit mockingly. Does our dear Father in heaven find joy in watching this divine comedy? The speakers start to cackle.
How long do you have to be with someone to truly understand them? That was the question of the night, one that plagued me for so many nights prior. How close will we ever come to that person’s essence? Haven’t I done so? I remember her face on our honeymoon. She was an angel on Earth; a face divine and a smile picturesque . I was truly happy back then. I’ve gotten promoted, gotten married, got a nice house on the west side of town near the countryside. Everything was going well.
I took another drink from my glass, and let its strong taste numb me. Stupid fuck. Naïve, stupid, fuck. The song changes to another jazz track, this time even faster and even more upbeat. Fuck you, God.
And so it was a great surprise, or rather, a great shock to find the house in an unsettling cleanliness, the table set for unknown guests and the rooms tidied for unknown visitors. On the table, in the middle of the tableware, was a single letter, written by hand, tears staining the cover.
It was addressed to m-
I threw the glass towards the wall in anger. What the fuck did I do to deserve this, God? What did I do wrong? I respected my parents. I worked hard at my job. I was loyal to my wife. I loved everyone, and did everything I could. Yet this is my outcome. This is my end. This is the climax to my comedic tale, the tale of the man toyed with by God. There is no moral, no plot, no logic. Just the tale of the puppet and the unfeeling puppeteer. The music becomes even cheerier.
I went to the kitchen to get another glass , as well as a broom and dustpan. Sweeping it up, the shards of the beautiful glass only reminded me of how seemingly perfect our relationship was in, and how it was just reduced to fragments, to nothingness. I slouched down on the sofa, and took another glass of alcohol.
The more I think about it, the more I miss her quiet smiles, her little jokes. She made my life complete. But without her, I was a lonely sight. Like a shattered wine glass. Or even a wine glass, without wine. She completed me. I loved her. Yet she didn’t love me back.
Fuck. Fuck it all. There is no meaning in this world. We are all alone.
I took another drink between night and blue sorrow.
The music stops. The house is silent again.