Breakdown
-x-
"That will be $42.58, sir." The cashier smiled at him cordially and
bagged his purchase, setting it on the counter top. He smiled back and
handed over the exact amount. The cashier gave him the receipt then bid
him good day.
He took up his purchase and left the store,
crossing the parking lot. A car honked at him as he passed in front of
it, and he waved apologetically, smiling as one would when trying
appease an angry driver. He weaved passed the long rows of cars,
dodging rogue shopping carts that were caught by the wind.
When
he made it to the other side, he walked the length of the sidewalk to
the bus stop marked with a steel pole and white sign and bright blue
waiting bench. An older woman sat to one side, walking cane in her lap
along with her large purse and bag of groceries. She saw him coming and
smiled at him warmly, not at all disturbed when he came to share the
bench with her.
He sat quietly next to her, waiting for the
bus to arrive. When it rolled up next to the sidewalk, he got up,
waited for those departing to leave first, then went to board the bus.
He stopped just before getting on to glance back at the older woman who
too was coming to board the bus. He smiled at her politely and held out
his hand.
At first the woman didn't understand his motives,
but he gently grasped her elbow and helped her up the first step. She
was then very grateful to him, thanking him as she ascended, paying the
ride fee before continuing on. He followed after her, climbing the
steps, paying the fee, then walking down the aisle to find himself an
empty seat.
He passed the woman on his way and they nodded to
each other. He secluded himself in the back, claiming an entire seat to
himself. It took only a moment before the bus started down the street,
continuing its route through the city.
Nearly half an hour
must've passed by the time he made it to his stop. The woman had left
by then, so there were no little nods of goodbye between them. That was
fine, since they were highly unlikely to see each other again.
He
walked down the pavement along the main street. From there, he turned
down a residential street and continued on, passing by quiet, modest
houses. He smiled at the little homey decorations on some of them, yet
continued on without lingering too much before any of the houses.
Then
he came to one with a simply designed driveway and double car garage,
one storied with blue roofing, and large welcome mat in front of the
door, complete with little wooden welcome sign that hung just below the
peephole.
He checked the little metal mailbox on the corner of
the lawn, found nothing inside, and went up to the drive-/walk- way. He
went up to the door and chuckled at the welcome sign as he fished out
his keys from his jacket pocket. He slotted the keys in and unlocked
the door, pushing it open. Just before he went in, though, he took the
welcome sign in his hand and with a smile ripped it off, hurling it
down the driveway.
He closed the door behind him and relocked
it, then turned to the interior of this quaint little house. Trash
could be found all over, papers scattered everywhere, couch cushions
thrown on the floor, chairs upturned in the dining room, even a
neglected broken glass in the kitchen, half the pieces laying on the
counter, the other half strewn about on the tile.
He still
smiled and waded through the mess as if it wasn't there, heading down
the hall toward the bedrooms. There was a vase propped on top of a
small table in the middle of the hall, and as he passed, he tipped it
over, sending it crashing to the ground. The vase broke into countless
pieces, spilling water and the flowers that were inside.
A
snicker bubbled in his chest and he kept going, heading straight for
the master bedroom. The bag of purchased good were tossed onto the
large bed, and automatically, probably from habit, he started to remove
his outer layers, shedding off his jacket, nudging off his shoes,
removing his accessories and tie. He picked up a remote and turned on
the radio.
"And that was 'Beautiful Day' by U2. Next up is the Butthole Surfers with 'Pepper'!"
Music played through the speakers, first beats, then a voice. "Marky
got with Sharon / And Sharon got Sharice / She was sharing Sharon's
outlook / On the topic of disease / Mikey had a facial scar / And Bobby
was a racist / They were all in love with dyin'..."
He moved
around the room, so clean and orderly in comparison to the mess in the
rest of the house, and unbuttoned his shirt. He shrugged it off his
shoulders and tossed it on the bed. Scars from various sources
decorated his body like some gruesome, abstract art piece. He was
unperturbed by the infinite markings, used to the white lines stretched
over his muscles. He sat down on the other side, then dragged the
nightstand close.
He settled the wooden desk between his legs,
and taking a marker from the top drawer drew on his palm, working his
way up his forearm. They were all constellations, Pegasus, Draco
Dragon, Andromeda. He connected the dots, making each one prominent.
Then
he held out his arm, looked at it, and smiled. He nodded in approval.
Reaching back, he picked up his purchase and unbagged it. He set the
box of pin nails down, then took the staple gun and unlatched the
loading cartridge. He loaded the pin nails in and replaced the
cartridge.
On the radio, the song still played. "Then he lost his leg in Dallas / He was dancing with a train / They were all in love with dyin'..."
Plugging
the electric staple gun into the wall, he gave a little chuckle and
leaned over the nightstand, laying his arm out. He paused to turn up
the music of the radio, lightly bopping his head to the beat.
He
put the tip of the gun to his skin, grinning, and pulled the trigger,
shooting a nail through his flesh. A cry escaped him, pained, yet he
laughed afterward, staring at the blood that sprung forth from his
wound. The nail stuck out of his hand, like NASA's flag on the moon. He
put the gun to his flesh again, and following the dots of the
constellations he drew on his skin, pulled the trigger again and again
and again.
Pain flared up his arm and through his shoulder.
His muscles protested when he tried to flex his fingers, pulling and
screaming at him. Blood oozed from his wounds, smearing and coating his
skin. He laughed, his strangled voice louder than the music, as tears
spilled from his eyes and down his cheeks. But he paid them no
attention.
He shot himself more than a dozen times from his
hand to his elbow, and then a couple more just for the hell of it. The
phone rang. He made to get up and answer it, but stopped when he
realized he couldn't move. He snickered when he saw that a couple of
the nails went through and stuck to the wood of the nightstand.
With
difficulty he reached for the remote of the radio and turned down the
volume, still laughing, though his breath could hardly keep up. He
panted and leaned heavily against the nightstand with his other arm,
fist clenching tightly as he gritted his teeth against the pain.
He felt pale and he shook, his head swimming. Was he starting to lose conscience? The answering machine picked up. "Hello,
this is a message for Mr. Svonton McDhoil from the Lukas Pharmacy. Your
medicine has come in, so you can pick it up any time. Our hours are
from eight A.M. to eight P.M. Thank you, and have a nice day."
He
dropped his head on the nightstand, groaning and laughing at the same
time. "Hurrah, my drugs came in," he muttered, gripping tightly with
his uninjured hand at the corner of the stand. "Fuck... it hurts..."
created and finished 20 Nov 2008