Usually it was after the second pack of smokes that inspiration came into his soul but today it came after the second cigarette
And when inspiration hit he'd grab the paper and pen and write letters old style
He was a romantic
My love, he wrote, this is the 272nd letter I write you, and its subject will be the idea of impossibility. I think impossibility is highly subjective, my love. I for one can climb Mount Everest in my shorts if I want to, but one thing I'll never ever do is get over you. I dream you every night. Every. Damn. Night. And I wake up and grab the dress you left behind and I wrap its strap around my penis like one of those rubber rings meant to make you last super long. I've been doing it for… a long time, love. Believe me. A long time. So long and so tight did I wrap the strap that I managed to damage the veins in my penis. It's bad… I can no longer get it hard now. At 29… The other day I came home with another girl. I was trying to replace you. D' you think I succeeded? It just won't get up. And even when it did, it didn't stay up. The girl thought it's because I smoke two packs a day, but that's bullshit. Everybody knows smoking doesn't actually affect that thing. That thing is only affected by the love men can't get past. And in my case it's you. You. You. YOU. And I'm not even mad. If I can't do it with you, then what's the point of doing it at all? There is no point! My love, you still haven't replied to any of my letters. That doesn't mean I'll stop writing and sending them. I just want you to know that the red dress you left behind… Well, it's faded now. I painted it with unimaginable loads of white. And how could I wash it when it still smells like you? Well, I guess now there'll be no more of that… But I still sleep with it on my pillow and hold a part of it in my mouth. I still love you, my love. And nothing will ever change that. P.S. The way I'll die will be with your dress wrapped around my head and the straps squeezing my neck. Now all the means of self pleasure stand in that. I love you.
He sealed the letter into an envelope and lit another cigarette
what else to do when the rain falls so heavy against the window outside?
Get melancholic get poetic have a drink have another
close and then lock the door to your room and don't listen to the voices coming from outside They want to distract you They don't want you to be successful and make it in life
They're all haters
He covered his ears and squinted his eyes at the computer screen doing his best to block out the negativity that came from beyond the door
“I can't get up!” the voice croaked. “Come help me. I can't get up.” And then with a cry, “Please!”
“Shut the fuck up, grandma! I'm trying to write in here. Jesus Christ, I'm trying to make it big, don't you understand? For fuck's sake now.”
He had also sent a manuscript to a potential publisher and was waiting for a reply. It's been two days already
The house doesn't feel like home, mother. Not since you left for the other world after father left for another house from outside town
Now there's just me here. And my older brother who is younger than me mentally and will remain so for the rest of his life He still hears whispers coming from every dark corner of the house and because of this our electric bill is enormous
I can no longer take this
I'm not strong enough
I'm not willing enough
This cross is too damn heavy. It's breaking my back, breaking my soul
I want to get a better job and eventually a car and a wife and start a family
I can't do that while taking care of my troubled brother
I quit.
Tonight I will make his nightmares come true The electricity will go out and suddenly the whispers that come from the dark will become voices and then screams and they'll get him
A rabbit can die if it gets too scared. I believe this is also valid for my troubled brother. I'll only make sure to leave a few sharp objects near him
I know he'll do it
And I'm sorry that he'll do it but there's no other way to break this shackle
One day I'll debate the issue with you, mother But for now you can't argue with me
at 08:22 he awakens and pushes away the tarp he uses as blanket
he’s already dressed up and wears shoes
looks around at the blackening dampness of the walls
stretches a bit
takes off his coat and the blouse and the shirt and the tank-top
grabs a tissue wets it with rubbing alcohol and uses it to wash his armpits. He knows it’s good for killing the bad smelling bacteria
He knows much about how the world works for he’d been to school and even one year of collage in his youth
When his armpits dry he dresses up and gets out and checks under the big flower pots that stand before the entry to the building
He is wise to keep his savings there Otherwise the others would’ve smelled it on him and would’ve robbed him a long time ago He counts the money and feels satisfied with the sum
At 09:30 he eats a warm meal at the local soup kitchen and turns down four bums who ask to borrow money
At 10:10 he walks up to the big casino and enters
Now his imagination kicks in
Behind the entry he is greeted with luxury, he walks on the red carpet and sees the bright lights and the game attendants who greet him like a king
He is the king in his vision and he had returned to his castle
He smiles and walks around leisurely
A man needs to have but a clear vision of a bright future to live a happy present
He finds a seat in front of a slot machine
puts the money into the bill acceptor and starts playing
He is one of the happiest customers the casino ever had
the worst part about being alone and sick is being sick but perhaps the second worst is having no one to comfort you
He reminded himself aloud that it was his own choice and rolled on the carpet and pushed his thumbs inside his eyes
The head was killing him, like the brain grew legs and constantly kneed his eyeballs from the inside, seeking to push them out like caps of beer bottles and exit through the holes
And his stomach wasn't any better although it got everything out some time ago
The first few coughs came with liquid, pungent vomit but now there was only blood
"You can only get what you deserve," whispered the faded silhouette from the mirror. "You might think all this is caused by the bottle of wine you found while dumpster diving as you do. It had been opened and had no label but you thought 'ah, what the hell, wine doesn't expire. It's probably still good.' Hah! It's not the wine, you cretin! It's you. You alone are the cause of all trouble, of all that's going sour in your life."
"Fuck you," he said
"Oh? That all you can say? You piece of filth. I hope you don't recover from this and finally do a service to the world and stay dead."
But the words infused him with the needed adrenaline to keep living
On the next morning he was feeling almost right
He dressed up and stood before the mirror to laugh at the silhouette but it was no longer there
"Ah, that's right," he said. "You died a long time ago, mother. Thank you for your service."
Daydreaming as a profession 