Why Is This Here? — 11th installment

Martin Major turns his attention to Marci, returns her attention that is, she’s calm now, breathing slowly, she’s gotten her sniffing in, she licked his cock leg foot and  slipper, now her long smooth face lies on his lap, her body stretched and legs splayed on the floor, her odd little eyes alternately fixed on nothing and searching for his. One of the arguments that his wife . . . Toni . . . had used to delay his final departure — obliteration rather, since he’s in the state of final departure now, had been for some time and and will continue to be indefinitely unless he takes action to end it and soon — was the appeal to his sympathy for Marci, she’d be heartbroken Toni had said, she’ll miss you and she’ll be even sadder when she’d see how much I miss you too. She’d be living in a household of misery. And she’ll be happier watching me slobber in bed? he said in return, she’ll be happy with me unrersponsive and staring off into deep space with vacant eyes and an empty brain while she’s running off steam roomtoroom knocking down lamps and soiling rugs? You’re not the only one occupying this place she said, I’ll always be here to play with her, No you’ll be out he said, you won’t be able to stay in here with a thousandyearold man who stares unseeing at colorless ceilings, you’ve given your life to children, that’s your profession, or if I’m in some nursinghome Alzheimer unit she’ll be lonely too, my god she’s only three years old. But Toni’s appeals always won, at least they always had won, but with her out he’d better do something quick get out on that balcony quick, a fourteen story drop should take care of everything.

I’ve got a little will left he thinks, feels really, since words are hard to summon in such times of turbulence and repose as he’s experienced in the last twenty minutes, and a little eye for beauty yet, the view from the balcony is lovely, the harbor, the boats out there, the ribbon of park and boulevard, the green grass fourteen stories below, the bright sparkles on the waves out there . . .

Come here girl and sit by me.

Thickbodied Marci scrambles up beside him, he puts his arm around her powerful neck, her breathing remains quiet as she peers at him, their eyes are locked together, you’re a good girl he tells he, I’ve got two good girls.

He used to have reason too — he resumed his wordless thoughts — he was a master logician, he used and abused logic like few out there, it’s all gone now, he can’t even make points with his wife anymore, none, the . . . what was her field again? damn she was as good in hers as he was in his, reason has pretty much left him, it’s as though it had only been visiting, as though it were traipsing all around spacetime and decided to set up shop in his head, it was pretty good to him, pretty good, he tried to banish it more than a few times but it was , what? he thought hard, it was pretty much invulnerable, no no, indefatigable, no, invincible — ah yes invincible, good one — until it decided to leave him him and dry, make a getaway, a sneaky getaway, that and memory, most memory anyway. Not all of it. Not everything. Not the awful one, the nightmare. Ravenhaired Bonita in the nude. Bucknaked. Gorgeous. She murmuring in early foreplay you’ve got to leave her you’ve got to leave her you promised, he kneading already panting not now not now she pushing him away Wait a minute, hold on, the baby . . .  the baby, what about the baby, what about me, what do you mean not now? In the next room the baby wakes in a panic, screams and cries out mama, it’s a fourroom house he pays for, the meager rent, they’re in the livingroom the blinds are closed, they’re on a sofabed, it’s now a battle zone. Bonita’s hitting him with her fists on arms chest and shoulders he blocks wild punches aimed at his face, cock flailing strenuously as though imitating the punches, finally he grabs her wrists tight, teeth gritted, she struggles, her soft body, accustomed to babyflesh gentle strokes and massages in all the right places, quavering, flapping, Stop it stop it goddamnit stop it . . . . .

[That’s it for now. It’s called worn out.]


3 responses to “Why Is This Here? — 11th installment

  1. Having been temporarily unable to get to the net, I have read your most recent writings one by one. My gosh, I feel this man may yet end his misery as he is tempted to. And yet he is still in the world, still conscious of what is happening to him. If he loses that thread of comprehension, he will be unable to act as his will wishes, one way or the other. I feel he and you, the author, are worn out.

  2. Worn out in the sense that you experience so strongly his emotions or you could not describe them so well. Great writing must I suppose challenge the emotions and intelligence and you write very well ! Amazingly well.

  3. Thank you so much, Ann. I love the short story form because I get to invest a lot in my characters’ growth and feelings and actions without having to provide all kinds of little filler details about marginally important, sometimes unimportant, little details about quotidian things. But, yes, sometimes, it gets a bit wearing. I’m lucky, however, that when I need a break I can take it and then get right back into the work. There’s not too much more to go, but I’m a bit unsure of some things, including how it will end. I’m confident, however, that it will be as it should be.

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