He awoke in the dark. The term regained consciousness might have been a more accurate description. He was confused
for a moment, until he remembered where he was. His body was tangled in the sheets, and although he intended to kick
off the foul fabric and walk into the bathroom, his arms failed to respond quickly. They were like sacks of flesh attached to
parts of concrete that linked to his chest. He tried to kick free and his legs ached and moved just as slowly as his arms.
His chest burned. He thought he could feel the fluid in his brain shift, a wave of sensation tracing it's way along his skull.
Have I had a stroke? Am I dying?
In his mind he recounted the signs of a heart attack and tried to remember if they were the same signs of a stroke. He
remembered a documentary he'd watched once on World War II hospitals and bed sores. His arms responded a bit
quicker now, but he still found them hard to control. He kicked his now weak legs. There was a moment of commotion
and suddenly he was on the floor looking at the featureless white ceiling. He originally has though it would highlight the
darkness of the chocolate walls in the master bedroom but now found it damned boring to look at. He faded out.
How long have I been out?
He was still on the floor, the carpet itchy at the base of his back and toe hurt for some reason. His right arm throbbed
and he was sure now he was having a heart attack. He cried for a minute there in the darkness and then fought back his
tears. He took deep breaths and remembered that having trouble breathing was a sign as well, so he calmed down just a
bit.
Am I going to die here?
He took stock of his situation. He was alone, upstairs in the master bedroom of his home. Fifty two hundred square feet
of living space, and the rest of the room, the hallway, the stairs and another hallway lay between him and the kitchen. He
was sure his cell phone had battery had died at some point, so the only phone in the house, the only land line, was the
fax machine in the home office. He wondered why nobody had missed him.
He struggled onto his stomach and rested. From this angle he could see a seam of light at the bottom of the thick drapes
he thought would add a touch of style to the room. His right arm still throbbed but his left seemed to be working a little
better now. He blinked and the seam of light was gone.
Did I just pass out? What time is it?
He'd been depressed so he'd told his people that he'd call back in a while and gone to bed. He wondered how long it had
been. He remembered the first few days, when he'd go downstairs and drink a juice and go back to bed or eat some
cookies. Then it had been a bottle of room temperature juice by the bed, then tap water from the bathroom and then he
wasn't hungry or thirsty anymore. He cried again there on the floor of the master bedroom, his face buried in the musty
stinking sheets, cried for a pain he couldn't soothe, that had got him here. Cried in the dark.
After awhile he got his left arm working again and dragged himself around the corner of the bed. The carpet that had felt
so plush when he'd gotten it now grabbed at his skin and made him wish he could burn it. His knee hurt after a bit and he
took it as a good sign that his limbs were still working. He made a decision that walking would be better than crawling and
leaning against the wall and African oak armoire worked himself up into a sitting position. With his good arm he punched
at his thighs, hoping feeling meant usage. He flexed the fingers of his right hand. He watched in fascination as the fingers
opened and closed.
Why God?
His right arm was on fire, little pins under the skin, but his legs started responding. He thought maybe he'd worked up to
heart attack now and sat perfectly still as if to ward it off not forcing anything. His left leg trembled, his right knee hurt. His
skin felt slick, a solid layer of sweat and body grit was visible now as he watched his body. His manhood sat shriveled
beneath an emaitached stomach. He suddenly noticed that the paunch that kept him in the gym and on diets and off
carbs was gone now. Now that would be ironic he thought, I finally get slimmer and I die.
He awoke, his mouth was dry. He felt a sharp pain in chest when he took a breath. His legs still hurt, but now moved
when he commanded. His right arm had stopped hurting, and his left arm responded. It took a while, but he struggled to
his feet. His chest felt heavy, his eyes watered.
He took his first step after realizing that standing there wedged between the wall and the armorie accomplished nothing. It
wasn't so much a step as a stagger, his shoulder firm into the hand carved dark woods as he step by slow step made his
way to the door, and back to the wall when the fancy clothing closet was behind him. Halfway he got disoriented and
dizzy and stopped. When he finally got the door frame he felt he'd run a marathon.
Yet another brilliant idea.
His mind suddenly flashed to the discussion with that damned fair haired architect. He'd been well acquainted with the
rationale of the master on the main level, but had taken the time to explain that since he lived alone and was alone, that if
the master bedroom, the kitchen, the living room and the home office were all on the main floor, he'd have no reason to
even have a second floor! Without his bedroom up there he might not go up there for months or years at a time. So the
master had been moved to the second floor.
This came to him as he caught sight of daylight as it reflected off the stairway down at the end of the hall. The hallway
was broad at his insistence, having hated the narrow hallways of his parents fourth floor walk up. He realized that he
wouldn't be able to drag his body across the wall, too many art pieces and two couches lay between him and the marble
stairway. Taking a deep breath and saying a silent prayer he left the wall and shambled, stumbling towards the stairwell.
He found himself looking at the carpet design up close. From his vantage point on the floor he admired how the fading
sunlight brought out the subtle pattern in the amber colored walls that Mr. Akers had charged him extra for. He lay there
awhile. The light slowly faded.
The stairs went on for miles and miles, or maybe twenty steps. To him it was the same thing. That he hadn't taken a
blood pressure pill in ages suddenly occurred to him. He slid down the steps on sweat and grime, his body leaving a slick
and dirty trail as it slid towards the first level. Unable to regain his feet he found himself at the top of the open staircase
and had simply given up and started rolling down the stairs, to found a heap dead at the bottom, before his body had
righted itself and come to a rest sprawled halfway onto the marble foyer instead of splattered. Marble floor in foyer,
another brilliant idea.
Do I deserve to die alone? Like this?
He'd been a okay son, disappointing his parents by dropping out of college and chasing his own calling. He'd never been
a father or a husband, still stuck hopelessly years later on a woman who'd left him for her own true love. He'd been
charitable and sociable and likable and only occasionally an asshole at the office. He'd sponsored a little league team one
season. He opened his eyes and saw from his awkward pose sprawled naked halfway on the stairs in his foyer the huge
abstract painting he'd hung over the opening the living room and remembered the sudden confidence in the young
artist's eyes when he'd agreed to buy it. The artist was still struggling, but he hoped he'd lit a spark. He'd cheated on a
few women. Probably in the course of his life destroyed someone's dream almost casually, it was the nature of business.
He'd more than likely used a few people for his own ends. The concept of karma led him to believe that due to his efforts
someone must have ended up a white slave in Calcutta at his hand.
Not lying wholly on the floor helped regaining his feet. The house smelled musty, and stank of sweat. He realized after a
fashion he was smelling himself. Eat, call somebody and then shower. That was the plan. Using the wall as a crutch he
staggered off in the direction of the kitchen, getting lost and mentally cursing the fifty two hundred square feet again.
Who is that?
A dirty naked man stood in the room. A grizzled salt and pepper beard that ran down his neck, flab hanging off his out of
shape and out of conditioned body and uncombed hair. The figure's red rimmed eyes glared at him in menace and it was
only when he raised his fist and opened his mouth to yell at the man in HIS house did he realize he was looking in the
mirror at the end of the hallway. He looked as though he'd escaped a dungeon. A cartoon stereotype of old man. A
walking pathetic excuse for humanity.
He nearly sat down right there and let death take him.
The kitchen was a neat as he was dirty. Only a single glass was out of place, the one he left on the counter the last time
he'd been there what must have been ages ago. Using the counter for support he made his way to the promised land,
and threw open the door of the Sub-Zero. He drank juice first, tearing open the carton and getting most of it on the floor
on the way to his mouth. Then he drank what must have been month old tea.
He awoke with his head in resting on the lip of the doorway, his mouth tasting of vomit. Too much too fast. His right arm
responded and he suckled on salad dressing from the bottom of the door racks. He found a bowl of something and
forced a handful into his mouth without even taking time to wipe off the mold. He was full after that handful. He awoke
again, his body shivering as the fridge amped up the cool in an attempt to maintain it's temperature settings. He looked
out at the kitchen, other than the corner he'd soiled it's onyx counter tops and track lighting a testament to good taste
and expensive interior designers.
After a fashion, he realized he needed to find the phone. The office was down that other hallway, around the corner. He
would call somebody. Anybody. And not be dead. Then he would order a pizza.
for a moment, until he remembered where he was. His body was tangled in the sheets, and although he intended to kick
off the foul fabric and walk into the bathroom, his arms failed to respond quickly. They were like sacks of flesh attached to
parts of concrete that linked to his chest. He tried to kick free and his legs ached and moved just as slowly as his arms.
His chest burned. He thought he could feel the fluid in his brain shift, a wave of sensation tracing it's way along his skull.
Have I had a stroke? Am I dying?
In his mind he recounted the signs of a heart attack and tried to remember if they were the same signs of a stroke. He
remembered a documentary he'd watched once on World War II hospitals and bed sores. His arms responded a bit
quicker now, but he still found them hard to control. He kicked his now weak legs. There was a moment of commotion
and suddenly he was on the floor looking at the featureless white ceiling. He originally has though it would highlight the
darkness of the chocolate walls in the master bedroom but now found it damned boring to look at. He faded out.
How long have I been out?
He was still on the floor, the carpet itchy at the base of his back and toe hurt for some reason. His right arm throbbed
and he was sure now he was having a heart attack. He cried for a minute there in the darkness and then fought back his
tears. He took deep breaths and remembered that having trouble breathing was a sign as well, so he calmed down just a
bit.
Am I going to die here?
He took stock of his situation. He was alone, upstairs in the master bedroom of his home. Fifty two hundred square feet
of living space, and the rest of the room, the hallway, the stairs and another hallway lay between him and the kitchen. He
was sure his cell phone had battery had died at some point, so the only phone in the house, the only land line, was the
fax machine in the home office. He wondered why nobody had missed him.
He struggled onto his stomach and rested. From this angle he could see a seam of light at the bottom of the thick drapes
he thought would add a touch of style to the room. His right arm still throbbed but his left seemed to be working a little
better now. He blinked and the seam of light was gone.
Did I just pass out? What time is it?
He'd been depressed so he'd told his people that he'd call back in a while and gone to bed. He wondered how long it had
been. He remembered the first few days, when he'd go downstairs and drink a juice and go back to bed or eat some
cookies. Then it had been a bottle of room temperature juice by the bed, then tap water from the bathroom and then he
wasn't hungry or thirsty anymore. He cried again there on the floor of the master bedroom, his face buried in the musty
stinking sheets, cried for a pain he couldn't soothe, that had got him here. Cried in the dark.
After awhile he got his left arm working again and dragged himself around the corner of the bed. The carpet that had felt
so plush when he'd gotten it now grabbed at his skin and made him wish he could burn it. His knee hurt after a bit and he
took it as a good sign that his limbs were still working. He made a decision that walking would be better than crawling and
leaning against the wall and African oak armoire worked himself up into a sitting position. With his good arm he punched
at his thighs, hoping feeling meant usage. He flexed the fingers of his right hand. He watched in fascination as the fingers
opened and closed.
Why God?
His right arm was on fire, little pins under the skin, but his legs started responding. He thought maybe he'd worked up to
heart attack now and sat perfectly still as if to ward it off not forcing anything. His left leg trembled, his right knee hurt. His
skin felt slick, a solid layer of sweat and body grit was visible now as he watched his body. His manhood sat shriveled
beneath an emaitached stomach. He suddenly noticed that the paunch that kept him in the gym and on diets and off
carbs was gone now. Now that would be ironic he thought, I finally get slimmer and I die.
He awoke, his mouth was dry. He felt a sharp pain in chest when he took a breath. His legs still hurt, but now moved
when he commanded. His right arm had stopped hurting, and his left arm responded. It took a while, but he struggled to
his feet. His chest felt heavy, his eyes watered.
He took his first step after realizing that standing there wedged between the wall and the armorie accomplished nothing. It
wasn't so much a step as a stagger, his shoulder firm into the hand carved dark woods as he step by slow step made his
way to the door, and back to the wall when the fancy clothing closet was behind him. Halfway he got disoriented and
dizzy and stopped. When he finally got the door frame he felt he'd run a marathon.
Yet another brilliant idea.
His mind suddenly flashed to the discussion with that damned fair haired architect. He'd been well acquainted with the
rationale of the master on the main level, but had taken the time to explain that since he lived alone and was alone, that if
the master bedroom, the kitchen, the living room and the home office were all on the main floor, he'd have no reason to
even have a second floor! Without his bedroom up there he might not go up there for months or years at a time. So the
master had been moved to the second floor.
This came to him as he caught sight of daylight as it reflected off the stairway down at the end of the hall. The hallway
was broad at his insistence, having hated the narrow hallways of his parents fourth floor walk up. He realized that he
wouldn't be able to drag his body across the wall, too many art pieces and two couches lay between him and the marble
stairway. Taking a deep breath and saying a silent prayer he left the wall and shambled, stumbling towards the stairwell.
He found himself looking at the carpet design up close. From his vantage point on the floor he admired how the fading
sunlight brought out the subtle pattern in the amber colored walls that Mr. Akers had charged him extra for. He lay there
awhile. The light slowly faded.
The stairs went on for miles and miles, or maybe twenty steps. To him it was the same thing. That he hadn't taken a
blood pressure pill in ages suddenly occurred to him. He slid down the steps on sweat and grime, his body leaving a slick
and dirty trail as it slid towards the first level. Unable to regain his feet he found himself at the top of the open staircase
and had simply given up and started rolling down the stairs, to found a heap dead at the bottom, before his body had
righted itself and come to a rest sprawled halfway onto the marble foyer instead of splattered. Marble floor in foyer,
another brilliant idea.
Do I deserve to die alone? Like this?
He'd been a okay son, disappointing his parents by dropping out of college and chasing his own calling. He'd never been
a father or a husband, still stuck hopelessly years later on a woman who'd left him for her own true love. He'd been
charitable and sociable and likable and only occasionally an asshole at the office. He'd sponsored a little league team one
season. He opened his eyes and saw from his awkward pose sprawled naked halfway on the stairs in his foyer the huge
abstract painting he'd hung over the opening the living room and remembered the sudden confidence in the young
artist's eyes when he'd agreed to buy it. The artist was still struggling, but he hoped he'd lit a spark. He'd cheated on a
few women. Probably in the course of his life destroyed someone's dream almost casually, it was the nature of business.
He'd more than likely used a few people for his own ends. The concept of karma led him to believe that due to his efforts
someone must have ended up a white slave in Calcutta at his hand.
Not lying wholly on the floor helped regaining his feet. The house smelled musty, and stank of sweat. He realized after a
fashion he was smelling himself. Eat, call somebody and then shower. That was the plan. Using the wall as a crutch he
staggered off in the direction of the kitchen, getting lost and mentally cursing the fifty two hundred square feet again.
Who is that?
A dirty naked man stood in the room. A grizzled salt and pepper beard that ran down his neck, flab hanging off his out of
shape and out of conditioned body and uncombed hair. The figure's red rimmed eyes glared at him in menace and it was
only when he raised his fist and opened his mouth to yell at the man in HIS house did he realize he was looking in the
mirror at the end of the hallway. He looked as though he'd escaped a dungeon. A cartoon stereotype of old man. A
walking pathetic excuse for humanity.
He nearly sat down right there and let death take him.
The kitchen was a neat as he was dirty. Only a single glass was out of place, the one he left on the counter the last time
he'd been there what must have been ages ago. Using the counter for support he made his way to the promised land,
and threw open the door of the Sub-Zero. He drank juice first, tearing open the carton and getting most of it on the floor
on the way to his mouth. Then he drank what must have been month old tea.
He awoke with his head in resting on the lip of the doorway, his mouth tasting of vomit. Too much too fast. His right arm
responded and he suckled on salad dressing from the bottom of the door racks. He found a bowl of something and
forced a handful into his mouth without even taking time to wipe off the mold. He was full after that handful. He awoke
again, his body shivering as the fridge amped up the cool in an attempt to maintain it's temperature settings. He looked
out at the kitchen, other than the corner he'd soiled it's onyx counter tops and track lighting a testament to good taste
and expensive interior designers.
After a fashion, he realized he needed to find the phone. The office was down that other hallway, around the corner. He
would call somebody. Anybody. And not be dead. Then he would order a pizza.
This is a story that I wrote when I probably was in a bad place. It's not a bad story, but
it's kinda dark and I'm not sure what I was trying to say here.
it's kinda dark and I'm not sure what I was trying to say here.