chaplin
11-05-2007, 08:35 PM
(I apologize in advance for the length.)
----------
As usual, and in the same manner as always, his week began with the clicks of his fingernail clipper. They were startlingly similar, those little clicks, no matter under what conditions they were performed; always very sharp, and metallic-hued, and partially irksome. Yes, he thought, they were irksome, always, but no more annoying or irksome than the sound of one’s own breath; but breathing is vital, it has primal qualities, and, most of all, nothing remains once it’s exhaled. Unlike breathing, he thought, each one of these little clicks hatches a tiny, enameled moon, crescent style…
His thoughts, roughly similar to those of the previous week, would have continued on--like that law of motion says—but his bedroom door clacked open and let in Lars. Lars—in his pinstripe, ivory blue suit resting on the smooth, unbroken line of his shoulders just below his wispy, silver hair—skirted the broad reach of the bed easily and stopped a few feet in front of him. He glanced obliquely up at Lars and removed both of his neatly trimmed hands from the side table at his knees.
“All done with the fingernails, Master Bruff?”
Bruff clenched his fingers into two tight wads then nodded. “Yes Lars, all done.”
Lars then brought from behind his back, where his hands had been, a transparent plastic sandwich bag. It was labeled with that day’s date and a four digit number. Lars pinched each fingernail clipping with two fingers and noiselessly dropped them one by one into the bag hanging limp in his left hand.
“You know, Lars…” Bruff began, but halted. Instead of finishing his thought he breathed out and released all the tension in his shoulders. “So, collection 1144, right Lars?” Without stopping his work Lars inclined his head and replied, “Yes, collection 1144, Master Bruff.” Lars had never called him anything but that—Master Bruff—all his life. The epithet didn’t fit too well now that he had grown from a child to a man, but nothing else, either Sir or Mister or etc., fit better; so, to Lars, he was Master Bruff.
Lars dropped the last little crescent clipping into the bag then slid his thumb and forefinger across its top to close it.
“There is nothing planned for today, Master Bruff. Breakfast is ready when you desire it.”
Bruff twitched one corner of his lips. "Thank you, Lars. I’ll take breakfast now…Is it nice out?” (The sun had set the closed curtains glowing almost fiercely, but he asked it anyway). Lars nodded solemnly. “I think I’ll spend the morning outside, reading.” Lars inclined his back, this beloved motion accompanied by the equally adored “Yes Master Bruff”, then left; the little, clear bag, with the off-white fingernails resting in a line on its bottom, followed in his hand.
----------
Bruff’s life was, as it were, controlled, from the grave, by his father. John Bruff Sr., as most fathers do, loved his only son and child John, not Johnny, Jr.; but, as some fathers also do, he took the opportunity, as having a child presents, to structure his son’s life in the way he wanted. Bruff Sr., always being a curious, thinking, theoretical man, took this opportunity to satisfy a personal whim: John Bruff Jr.’s life would be conducted in such a manner so as to determine, as a gift to humanity, the sum, the absolute total of one life. So, from the very day that John Jr. left the womb, his life was recorded, archived, and preserved to completely collect and collate the full entirety of a human life.
Fortunately for Bruff Sr., he was a man of means (business, the only way real money can be made these days) and he used these means to enact his plan, hiring several full-time recorders and observers of nearly every aspect of his son’s life. One position, staffed by three people each assigned an eight-hour shift, summarized every hour of John Jr.’s day. Each week these reports would be arranged, by two other employees, and bound, by another, into a volume which was then stored, chronologically, in a warehouse on the estate. Another position was that of a collector. He and an assistant would archive every physical remnant of John Jr.’s life. This included nearly everything besides waste; from his body: teeth, hair from off barber’s floor, and fingernails; and external objects: candy bar wrappers, water bottles, toothbrush packages, purchase receipts, photocopies of notes and letters, and dozens of others. These were also grouped and labeled then stored in the same warehouse. The final position was that of a supervisor, who oversaw all of the collection and recording.
The employees of the many positions had come and gone as frequently as in a normal business or organization, except for this last one. Lars was placed on the payroll three months before John Jr.’s birth, and had stayed on it until the present. Lars’ position gave him much time and contact with John Jr., and thus a tentative, changing relationship grew between them; more so than Bruff’s mother, who died when he was a toddler, and that of his father, who paid little attention to the emotional side of their familial relationship.
And so John Bruff Jr. went through the stages and phases that every person goes through, all the while, ubiquitously attended to by nearly a dozen full-time employees. He grew up, and soon became accustomed to such close attention and the unusually large emphasis placed on his daily existence; and, perhaps inevitably, his thoughts and feelings in reaction to his unique way of life stayed, for the most part, within himself; many of them being the only things to go unrecorded by his father’s men.
The years passed by and another warehouse had to be built. The seasons ebbed and flowed and his father grew unhealthy and passed away. This universal event resulted in few changes to John Jr.’s life; definitely less than is the average for averagely living people. John Bruff Sr. had set up his estate so that the assembling and cataloging of his son’s life could continue indefinitely after his death; and, as his weak lungs pushed out his last, weak breath, he must have felt very content at the progress of his experiment.
And so the years passed and John Bruff Jr. quietly existed, and as is not the case for billions, people took notice.
----------
After tossing some clear, cool, almost electrically cold water from his cupped hands onto his waiting face, Bruff tied his robe more tightly around him and walked down the carpeted hall to the tiled dining room. Charlie, the morning observer, looked up from a notebook as Bruff strode in; they exchanged greetings. Seating himself in front of his meal Bruff placed a napkin over his lap and began eating.
“How goes it this day, Charlie?” Bruff asked then took his first mouthful.
“Quite well, John, quite well.” Bruff smiled slightly, nodded, then swallowed.
Bruff was on friendly terms with Charlie, as he was with nearly all the staff, and he enjoyed the casual let-down after interacting with the ever-formal Lars.
The two talked idly with one another while John ate his meal. Charlie occasionally pulled his notebook to him and wrote a few lines, then pushed it away again and went on listening or talking.
Bruff scraped the last bit of breakfast onto his gleaming silver fork, deposited it into his mouth, then leaned back in his comfortable chair and exhaled deeply, the way one does after finishing a meal.
“You know, Charlie…” Bruff hesitated, then leaned forward and continued, “Charlie, don’t you ever feel that all this (he gestured toward the half-filled notebook) is all just a waste of things?” Charlie frowned in affected deliberation and Bruff pursued his thought. “I mean, Charlie, doesn’t it seem that by recording everything we’re killing it?...” Charlie continued to frown, partially, “Well,” he began but Bruff abruptly stood and cut him off. “Nevermind, Charlie, nevermind.” Bruff, beckoning the still-sitting Charlie with his hand and elbow, left the dining room. “Outside, Charlie. I’m going to sit in the sun and read.” Charlie popped up and grabbed his notebook as he exited the room.
Out on the lawn Charlie sat beside Bruff in a stiff wicker chair; he steadied his notebook on his lap then craned his neck inquisitively towards Bruff, asking, “Is that the Tolstoy?” Bruff showed him the cover, a thumb marking his place. “Chapter 19?” Bruff nodded then re-slit the book open as Charlie scribbled down the information.
Bruff did not read the book in his hands. He feigned concentration on his brow, periodically turning the pages after a space of time had elapsed. Bruff was concentrating, just not on Tolstoy. He was working on the last touches of his plan, the plan that had been ruminating, soaking, festering in his mind for weeks now. It had, at first, been merely a flight of fancy, a caprice that was soon pushed aside; but, after it had continued importuning him day after day, he had finally latched himself irrevocably to it and was determined to see it through, all the way.
“Let’s see,” he thought, the words on the page out of focus, “tonight Ian will be observing…I wish Charlie had the night shift, he’d let me go without any fuss…but Ian, he’s older than I am…but, still, doesn’t he work for me?...of course he does…I’ll straight out tell him I’m going for a night stroll and wish to be left alone…if he protests I’ll just push my authority on him…yes…tonight I’ll be going on a nice walk in the dark…alone…”
Having thus come to a decision Bruff settled down more into his chair, lifted his ankles onto a footstool, and began to read.
----------
Night. The curtains covering the long, tall window hold back the moonlight, allowing the sibilant fire to toss its ruddy amber all across the spacious room. Bruff sits several feet from the hearth, safely watching in an overly-padded lounge chair. The ever-rising, ever-flickering flames lightly reflect in his eyes, like a torch held over a puddle. His fingers are tautly fanned out and press against each other tip to tip. He pushes them harder together and they feel like ten little springs tightening under his skin.
Ian sits to the right of him, resting, with a notebook on his legs, in a shadowed corner. His eyes are aimed over at Bruff but they see nothing; they have been set aside as his mind, unfettered by the firelight, leisurely moves from place to place on the limitless tundra of thought.
Smoothly, yet abruptly, Bruff lowers his hands, grips the soft arms of the chair, and pushes himself up. The cloud parts from Ian’s eyes and they resume their duties, following Bruff as he stands and turns toward him.
“I’m going for a little stroll around the grounds.” Ian starts to raise himself but Bruff takes a step forward and lifts his right hand up to his chest, palm outward. “No, no Ian, I’ll be the only one going.” Ian’s forehead wrinkles in slight, silent protest but Bruff peremptorily walks away toward the open door. “Just lean back and enjoy yourself; I won’t be gone long. What time is it?” He turns and glances at the large wall clock, then continues, “Just write in your little notebook: 10:30-11:00, Walking the grounds.”
Ian does not lean back, but the fight, lingering in his forehead and eyes, has left him. Bruff grins and says softly, “Good boy,” then turns his back to Ian and the whispering fire.
Bruff first walks two doors to the right and enters his bedroom. He sheds his silk robe in the dark and slips a cloth jacket over his frame. Before leaving he takes out several crisp, new 50 dollar bills from a nearby drawer and stuffs them in his shallow pants pocket.
Now he is out on the graveled path that circles the house like a moat of pebbles. He follows it around to the rear, his steps grating the miniscule stones together in an earthy crunch. He stops at the garage and pushes open its door. It obeys the force of his hand fluidly, without a sound.
Inside it is nearly as black as an undiscovered cave. The moon’s pale, leaden light seeps in through two oblong windows, weakly illuminating the space in grayscale. Bruff strides to a corner and rummages around near his feet. He then hefts up a plastic gas-can that sloshes, like a liquid-tinkling, as he raises it to his waist. He immediately turns back to the door, still ajar, and leaves.
As he follows the neat, trim path away from the house Bruff breathes slowly and does not look around. The lane of trees under which he is walking casts spindly, reaching bursts of shadow along the trail. The night smells as it should, like night, just barely tinged by the acrid odor of gasoline emanating from the gas-can cradled against his chest.
Moments later, he reaches the rectangular, hulking frame of the first warehouse. Setting the can down beside his feet, he removes a jangling ring of keys from his pocket and slides one into the door; as it glides open the darkness of the night merges with that of the building. Inside, he is forced to grope along the wall and switch on the harsh, overhead lights. They flash on with a shock of light.
Without blinking or pausing, he unscrews the top of the gas-can and lets the lid plummet onto the slate gray cement floor. He steps toward the large, long shelves that fill the warehouse and begins flinging the can’s clear liquid contents all over them, slightly wetting his hands. The odorous gasoline permeates the air around him like a splotchy, soupy mist.
Satisfied, he sets the now half-empty can on a nearby shelf and deftly removes a matchbook from his pocket. The flimsy match scrapes then erupts into a white, pointed flame. Just as it settles down into an even burn he throws it onto a shelf of books; a shelf of his very life.
The gasoline hisses into a conflagration. He grabs the gas-can and rushes out the door without closing it.
Bruff sprints several yards away from the first warehouse and swiftly unlocks and enters the second. Shaking the gasoline all over the orderly shelves, he sets it ablaze as quickly as the first and dashes out.
He strides away from the two dark, morose buildings and listens to the flames build and build. Then, blank-faced, he runs to the yard gate and leaves the house, the grounds, the flames behind.
----------
Bruff vanished on a Monday night. During the entirety of his disappearance no one heard anything from or about him. Some of the house staff, now with nothing to do, thought that he had fled the country; others, more grimly, guessed that he had thrown himself and a stone into a river. Neither were correct.
Immediately after setting the two warehouses ablaze, Bruff had jogged to the city and taken a taxi to the train station. There he casually pulled himself up into one of the snaky leviathans and began to ride. For the next six days—from Tuesday to Sunday—he simply rode and rode and rode.
On Sunday night at the house, Lars heard the front door lightly creak open then close. Curious and slightly alarmed, he hurried himself to the landing. He was met at the top of the stairs by a stubble-faced and subdued Bruff.
Bruff sighed deeply and smiled, then placed both his hands on Lars’ shoulders and patted them softly three times. “Lars, Lars, Lars,” he said, then walked down the hall and shut himself in his bedroom.
The next morning, with dawn already gone, Bruff awoke and sat silently up in bed. He slid his feet to the ground and pulled the side table to his knees. Taking the burnished silver nail clippers in his left hand, he began trimming the fingers of his right. He smiled weakly at the little clicks as they sounded, tinny and thin, from his nails.
When he had finished with both hands he picked up all of the little crescent clippings and placed them in the pit of his palm. Taking two steps to the waste basket, he leaned forward and tipped his hand over its circular mouth. The clippings slid noiselessly into it and he walked to the bathroom to shave.
----------
As usual, and in the same manner as always, his week began with the clicks of his fingernail clipper. They were startlingly similar, those little clicks, no matter under what conditions they were performed; always very sharp, and metallic-hued, and partially irksome. Yes, he thought, they were irksome, always, but no more annoying or irksome than the sound of one’s own breath; but breathing is vital, it has primal qualities, and, most of all, nothing remains once it’s exhaled. Unlike breathing, he thought, each one of these little clicks hatches a tiny, enameled moon, crescent style…
His thoughts, roughly similar to those of the previous week, would have continued on--like that law of motion says—but his bedroom door clacked open and let in Lars. Lars—in his pinstripe, ivory blue suit resting on the smooth, unbroken line of his shoulders just below his wispy, silver hair—skirted the broad reach of the bed easily and stopped a few feet in front of him. He glanced obliquely up at Lars and removed both of his neatly trimmed hands from the side table at his knees.
“All done with the fingernails, Master Bruff?”
Bruff clenched his fingers into two tight wads then nodded. “Yes Lars, all done.”
Lars then brought from behind his back, where his hands had been, a transparent plastic sandwich bag. It was labeled with that day’s date and a four digit number. Lars pinched each fingernail clipping with two fingers and noiselessly dropped them one by one into the bag hanging limp in his left hand.
“You know, Lars…” Bruff began, but halted. Instead of finishing his thought he breathed out and released all the tension in his shoulders. “So, collection 1144, right Lars?” Without stopping his work Lars inclined his head and replied, “Yes, collection 1144, Master Bruff.” Lars had never called him anything but that—Master Bruff—all his life. The epithet didn’t fit too well now that he had grown from a child to a man, but nothing else, either Sir or Mister or etc., fit better; so, to Lars, he was Master Bruff.
Lars dropped the last little crescent clipping into the bag then slid his thumb and forefinger across its top to close it.
“There is nothing planned for today, Master Bruff. Breakfast is ready when you desire it.”
Bruff twitched one corner of his lips. "Thank you, Lars. I’ll take breakfast now…Is it nice out?” (The sun had set the closed curtains glowing almost fiercely, but he asked it anyway). Lars nodded solemnly. “I think I’ll spend the morning outside, reading.” Lars inclined his back, this beloved motion accompanied by the equally adored “Yes Master Bruff”, then left; the little, clear bag, with the off-white fingernails resting in a line on its bottom, followed in his hand.
----------
Bruff’s life was, as it were, controlled, from the grave, by his father. John Bruff Sr., as most fathers do, loved his only son and child John, not Johnny, Jr.; but, as some fathers also do, he took the opportunity, as having a child presents, to structure his son’s life in the way he wanted. Bruff Sr., always being a curious, thinking, theoretical man, took this opportunity to satisfy a personal whim: John Bruff Jr.’s life would be conducted in such a manner so as to determine, as a gift to humanity, the sum, the absolute total of one life. So, from the very day that John Jr. left the womb, his life was recorded, archived, and preserved to completely collect and collate the full entirety of a human life.
Fortunately for Bruff Sr., he was a man of means (business, the only way real money can be made these days) and he used these means to enact his plan, hiring several full-time recorders and observers of nearly every aspect of his son’s life. One position, staffed by three people each assigned an eight-hour shift, summarized every hour of John Jr.’s day. Each week these reports would be arranged, by two other employees, and bound, by another, into a volume which was then stored, chronologically, in a warehouse on the estate. Another position was that of a collector. He and an assistant would archive every physical remnant of John Jr.’s life. This included nearly everything besides waste; from his body: teeth, hair from off barber’s floor, and fingernails; and external objects: candy bar wrappers, water bottles, toothbrush packages, purchase receipts, photocopies of notes and letters, and dozens of others. These were also grouped and labeled then stored in the same warehouse. The final position was that of a supervisor, who oversaw all of the collection and recording.
The employees of the many positions had come and gone as frequently as in a normal business or organization, except for this last one. Lars was placed on the payroll three months before John Jr.’s birth, and had stayed on it until the present. Lars’ position gave him much time and contact with John Jr., and thus a tentative, changing relationship grew between them; more so than Bruff’s mother, who died when he was a toddler, and that of his father, who paid little attention to the emotional side of their familial relationship.
And so John Bruff Jr. went through the stages and phases that every person goes through, all the while, ubiquitously attended to by nearly a dozen full-time employees. He grew up, and soon became accustomed to such close attention and the unusually large emphasis placed on his daily existence; and, perhaps inevitably, his thoughts and feelings in reaction to his unique way of life stayed, for the most part, within himself; many of them being the only things to go unrecorded by his father’s men.
The years passed by and another warehouse had to be built. The seasons ebbed and flowed and his father grew unhealthy and passed away. This universal event resulted in few changes to John Jr.’s life; definitely less than is the average for averagely living people. John Bruff Sr. had set up his estate so that the assembling and cataloging of his son’s life could continue indefinitely after his death; and, as his weak lungs pushed out his last, weak breath, he must have felt very content at the progress of his experiment.
And so the years passed and John Bruff Jr. quietly existed, and as is not the case for billions, people took notice.
----------
After tossing some clear, cool, almost electrically cold water from his cupped hands onto his waiting face, Bruff tied his robe more tightly around him and walked down the carpeted hall to the tiled dining room. Charlie, the morning observer, looked up from a notebook as Bruff strode in; they exchanged greetings. Seating himself in front of his meal Bruff placed a napkin over his lap and began eating.
“How goes it this day, Charlie?” Bruff asked then took his first mouthful.
“Quite well, John, quite well.” Bruff smiled slightly, nodded, then swallowed.
Bruff was on friendly terms with Charlie, as he was with nearly all the staff, and he enjoyed the casual let-down after interacting with the ever-formal Lars.
The two talked idly with one another while John ate his meal. Charlie occasionally pulled his notebook to him and wrote a few lines, then pushed it away again and went on listening or talking.
Bruff scraped the last bit of breakfast onto his gleaming silver fork, deposited it into his mouth, then leaned back in his comfortable chair and exhaled deeply, the way one does after finishing a meal.
“You know, Charlie…” Bruff hesitated, then leaned forward and continued, “Charlie, don’t you ever feel that all this (he gestured toward the half-filled notebook) is all just a waste of things?” Charlie frowned in affected deliberation and Bruff pursued his thought. “I mean, Charlie, doesn’t it seem that by recording everything we’re killing it?...” Charlie continued to frown, partially, “Well,” he began but Bruff abruptly stood and cut him off. “Nevermind, Charlie, nevermind.” Bruff, beckoning the still-sitting Charlie with his hand and elbow, left the dining room. “Outside, Charlie. I’m going to sit in the sun and read.” Charlie popped up and grabbed his notebook as he exited the room.
Out on the lawn Charlie sat beside Bruff in a stiff wicker chair; he steadied his notebook on his lap then craned his neck inquisitively towards Bruff, asking, “Is that the Tolstoy?” Bruff showed him the cover, a thumb marking his place. “Chapter 19?” Bruff nodded then re-slit the book open as Charlie scribbled down the information.
Bruff did not read the book in his hands. He feigned concentration on his brow, periodically turning the pages after a space of time had elapsed. Bruff was concentrating, just not on Tolstoy. He was working on the last touches of his plan, the plan that had been ruminating, soaking, festering in his mind for weeks now. It had, at first, been merely a flight of fancy, a caprice that was soon pushed aside; but, after it had continued importuning him day after day, he had finally latched himself irrevocably to it and was determined to see it through, all the way.
“Let’s see,” he thought, the words on the page out of focus, “tonight Ian will be observing…I wish Charlie had the night shift, he’d let me go without any fuss…but Ian, he’s older than I am…but, still, doesn’t he work for me?...of course he does…I’ll straight out tell him I’m going for a night stroll and wish to be left alone…if he protests I’ll just push my authority on him…yes…tonight I’ll be going on a nice walk in the dark…alone…”
Having thus come to a decision Bruff settled down more into his chair, lifted his ankles onto a footstool, and began to read.
----------
Night. The curtains covering the long, tall window hold back the moonlight, allowing the sibilant fire to toss its ruddy amber all across the spacious room. Bruff sits several feet from the hearth, safely watching in an overly-padded lounge chair. The ever-rising, ever-flickering flames lightly reflect in his eyes, like a torch held over a puddle. His fingers are tautly fanned out and press against each other tip to tip. He pushes them harder together and they feel like ten little springs tightening under his skin.
Ian sits to the right of him, resting, with a notebook on his legs, in a shadowed corner. His eyes are aimed over at Bruff but they see nothing; they have been set aside as his mind, unfettered by the firelight, leisurely moves from place to place on the limitless tundra of thought.
Smoothly, yet abruptly, Bruff lowers his hands, grips the soft arms of the chair, and pushes himself up. The cloud parts from Ian’s eyes and they resume their duties, following Bruff as he stands and turns toward him.
“I’m going for a little stroll around the grounds.” Ian starts to raise himself but Bruff takes a step forward and lifts his right hand up to his chest, palm outward. “No, no Ian, I’ll be the only one going.” Ian’s forehead wrinkles in slight, silent protest but Bruff peremptorily walks away toward the open door. “Just lean back and enjoy yourself; I won’t be gone long. What time is it?” He turns and glances at the large wall clock, then continues, “Just write in your little notebook: 10:30-11:00, Walking the grounds.”
Ian does not lean back, but the fight, lingering in his forehead and eyes, has left him. Bruff grins and says softly, “Good boy,” then turns his back to Ian and the whispering fire.
Bruff first walks two doors to the right and enters his bedroom. He sheds his silk robe in the dark and slips a cloth jacket over his frame. Before leaving he takes out several crisp, new 50 dollar bills from a nearby drawer and stuffs them in his shallow pants pocket.
Now he is out on the graveled path that circles the house like a moat of pebbles. He follows it around to the rear, his steps grating the miniscule stones together in an earthy crunch. He stops at the garage and pushes open its door. It obeys the force of his hand fluidly, without a sound.
Inside it is nearly as black as an undiscovered cave. The moon’s pale, leaden light seeps in through two oblong windows, weakly illuminating the space in grayscale. Bruff strides to a corner and rummages around near his feet. He then hefts up a plastic gas-can that sloshes, like a liquid-tinkling, as he raises it to his waist. He immediately turns back to the door, still ajar, and leaves.
As he follows the neat, trim path away from the house Bruff breathes slowly and does not look around. The lane of trees under which he is walking casts spindly, reaching bursts of shadow along the trail. The night smells as it should, like night, just barely tinged by the acrid odor of gasoline emanating from the gas-can cradled against his chest.
Moments later, he reaches the rectangular, hulking frame of the first warehouse. Setting the can down beside his feet, he removes a jangling ring of keys from his pocket and slides one into the door; as it glides open the darkness of the night merges with that of the building. Inside, he is forced to grope along the wall and switch on the harsh, overhead lights. They flash on with a shock of light.
Without blinking or pausing, he unscrews the top of the gas-can and lets the lid plummet onto the slate gray cement floor. He steps toward the large, long shelves that fill the warehouse and begins flinging the can’s clear liquid contents all over them, slightly wetting his hands. The odorous gasoline permeates the air around him like a splotchy, soupy mist.
Satisfied, he sets the now half-empty can on a nearby shelf and deftly removes a matchbook from his pocket. The flimsy match scrapes then erupts into a white, pointed flame. Just as it settles down into an even burn he throws it onto a shelf of books; a shelf of his very life.
The gasoline hisses into a conflagration. He grabs the gas-can and rushes out the door without closing it.
Bruff sprints several yards away from the first warehouse and swiftly unlocks and enters the second. Shaking the gasoline all over the orderly shelves, he sets it ablaze as quickly as the first and dashes out.
He strides away from the two dark, morose buildings and listens to the flames build and build. Then, blank-faced, he runs to the yard gate and leaves the house, the grounds, the flames behind.
----------
Bruff vanished on a Monday night. During the entirety of his disappearance no one heard anything from or about him. Some of the house staff, now with nothing to do, thought that he had fled the country; others, more grimly, guessed that he had thrown himself and a stone into a river. Neither were correct.
Immediately after setting the two warehouses ablaze, Bruff had jogged to the city and taken a taxi to the train station. There he casually pulled himself up into one of the snaky leviathans and began to ride. For the next six days—from Tuesday to Sunday—he simply rode and rode and rode.
On Sunday night at the house, Lars heard the front door lightly creak open then close. Curious and slightly alarmed, he hurried himself to the landing. He was met at the top of the stairs by a stubble-faced and subdued Bruff.
Bruff sighed deeply and smiled, then placed both his hands on Lars’ shoulders and patted them softly three times. “Lars, Lars, Lars,” he said, then walked down the hall and shut himself in his bedroom.
The next morning, with dawn already gone, Bruff awoke and sat silently up in bed. He slid his feet to the ground and pulled the side table to his knees. Taking the burnished silver nail clippers in his left hand, he began trimming the fingers of his right. He smiled weakly at the little clicks as they sounded, tinny and thin, from his nails.
When he had finished with both hands he picked up all of the little crescent clippings and placed them in the pit of his palm. Taking two steps to the waste basket, he leaned forward and tipped his hand over its circular mouth. The clippings slid noiselessly into it and he walked to the bathroom to shave.