This piece is to be named still. Please suggest possible titles in the comments! Thanks! I hope you find the symbolism!
His mind whirled as he grimaced through the memories. Sweat clung to his nape, while he half-reluctantly pressed the iron engraved typebars. The characters were worn with age for it had been his grandfather’s typewriter. It had once been new, like a sparkling sun, his grandpa used to say. But now, after two and a half lifetimes full of compassionate strokes, it had begun to fade. The ding, had once rung in your ears like a cheerful chime from a chickadee bird, happily fading away into de-toned note. Now, it squeaked in protest and screeched with rust, the bird’s song dying into a scream of pain.
The bitterness in his typed words was evident, and he knew that. It wasn’t necessarily pleasant to type about one’s deepest secret. One that scared him to the point of disbelief.
Tastes of old alcohol still covered his mouth, as he licked his dry lips, reminding him of the other night. The hangover was beginning to fade, like his typewriter characters, but his headaches were still brutal. But it was not only the pain of his physical demands that made him dizzy. It was also what had occurred that placed nausea at the pit of his stomach.
A wave of anguish suddenly washed over him, and he clenched his fists so hard, he felt his blood swell to fists. Looking then, at his hands, he saw nail marks where his nailed had dug severely into his skin. Still motionless, he gasped and willed himself to continue the letter.
To Whomever Loves Me Currently,
People cannot get worse than I, my feelings, my thoughts, my actions… are all completely inexcusable. I used to think that I was untouchable, that no one could bring me down from my rein of joy. But I was wrong about that too. As was I wrong about feelings. They are more than just tiny traits of the human experience. They are dangerous faults in everyone’s life, although I could never imagine someone acting worse upon them than I did.
This letter is proof to say that it was not a mistake. Although, it was not premeditated. I am scared for what it has done to me, and scared for what it will do to me.
I was at a bar, drinking to my accomplishments of my newly published book, when time got away from me. I had begun to drink more than I had planned, under the influence and cravings from my special medication. I was drunk after that, and could barely remember my own name. How I remember that still puzzles me, because every detail of that night still haunts every sight I see, tracing a connection to the night’s events. Usually getting drunk is a way to escape, and now, I have achieved just the opposite.
Anyways, I had started to gamble then, playing a fine game of Poker. I was winning, collecting almost all the chips and money in the pot. But someone refused to pay, and I lashed out. That’s the only thing I do not remember. How did I manage to get away from the gambling table, to the alley in which employees enter? It was almost as if an entire chunk of my life had been cut out. Black. Empty. Yet somehow I came to be there, and I was alone with the man who had refused to pay. I remember the feeling of anger burn through my veins as pain shot through mind, heaving me backwards against the brick, slimy wall. The man swung his arm with great force and it slammed into my chest, placing a hard, airless hole in my chest. I gasped for air and staggered backwards. The next image was amazingly vivid, I remember, and it was as time had slowed. A jagged piece of a broken beer jug was lying in a heap of sewerage, dark brown and deadly. A dulled thought whirled about my mind, then. It was as if the evil in me had been relieved by a small piece of dyed glass.
I took hold of the glass, not caring whether the sharp ridges sliced my rough palms. It thrust forward, impaling the heart of the stubborn man. His eyes widened with shock as he crumpled awkwardly to the musty ground, dampened with early-morning dew. Blood soaked through his shirt as I jerked back on the glass, now holding onto it as if I were a mad man. Well, I suppose I really am a mad man... But as he lay there, breathing thin, raspy breaths, I stood there possessing a sick feeling of pride and stubbornness. It was more like a combination of feelings actually, some I couldn’t and can’t define.
No one knows that I killed the man, I have witnessed newspapers telling of Gordon Selter’s body found dead, but there was no evidence to who killed him. This is the only document that withholds my confession. But feeling the guilt crawl inside of me, is starting to drive me insane, and this, at least, helps to relieve my pain, at least I am confessing to something.
Anyways, my intentions were foggy that night, like the night shade that had covered the dimmed lights of Paris. But I knew that it had something to do with my
Glancing over his pained words, he re-read the letter, despising every bit its contents. It felt like a dream to him as the words circled around him, trapping his humanity. It was obviously still unfinished, and he willed himself to continue.
But I knew it had something to do with my m- He typed clumsily, as if admitting it on paper was even more exhausting than admitting it aloud.
m-e-c… He froze. He had mistyped. Made a mistake. Could not redo. There was no do-over button to replace the mistaken letter ‘c’. He felt enraged and furious for his lack of attention. Backing up from his leathered piano seat, he threw his hands up, cursing. It would take him forever to restart! Even copying every word from the other paper would be difficult and exhausting! It pained him, it wasn’t like him to mess up! He stood there, motionless, for a second, breathing in deep, frustrating breaths.
Staring at the paper, he felt guilt, for ruining the piece of paper. But, suddenly, an idea formed in his mind, just as the other idea of murder had… unexpectedly. It was not murder this time, he would never ruin his paper even more. A correction, He thought. Although he could not go back and retype the mistake, he could try to fix it somewhat.
Still breathing deeply, he hobbled his way over to the supplies drawer. A cluttered mess lay within, he had no need for pens and pencils, really. Since typewriters were invented….
He dug through the jumble of materials, searching for a single, black pen. Finding the black-inked pen, he scrambled his way back to the typewriter. Placing the tip of the pen carefully to the paper, he drew a line vertically next to the c, connecting the curved and straight line.
He stood up, after completing the word. Staring wide-eyed at his former mistake. It was not perfect. You could tell where the vertical line curved and wavered, and where the pressure of the drying ink deepened or lightened. It was not perfect, but was the best he could do. It was the only thing left to do… and he ran out the door. The paper still unfinished.
