GMC
12-26-2012, 08:53 AM
Did this tonight because I felt like writing. Sorry if there are some errors here and there. Let me know what you think.
He sets the glass down, ice chattering. He releases a sigh, a long outward breath, nostrils flared. He swallows. The whiskey burns. The air is hot and stale, snuggling up to his pores, suffocating his skin.
I am not happy, he says aloud.
He takes another sip slowly. He slurps. He sloshes it around in his mouth, occupying his mind with the taste.
Smoky, he says, again into space.
Stroking his thick beard now, his mind wanders. Smoke → Fire → Forest Fire → Smokey the Bear → Smoke again. Smoke. He lights a cigarette, laughing through the sides of his mouth.
Cancer is funny now? Again out loud, smile remaining.
He inhales smoke. The slow incline. The anticipation. He exhales. No rush. No relief. Nothing but the taste. He takes another hit. He lights another cigarette. Three more. Five more. The pack's almost out. Nothing is changed.
F*****g smoke.
The air is so heavy, a pascal away from crushing his skull. He's up now. He's by a window, glass in hand. One whole wall in his office is windows. They bow outward visibly from the pressure. He lets out a chuckle again, no smile this time.
Fifty-Five Floors. Fffff...
Eyes closed. Teeth on lip. Knuckles white around his firewater, the liquid smoke. He bites down harder. Harder. Harderrrrrrrr.
F***.
He sucks a deep breath, blows. No relief. Another sip. He sees himself in the glass. He sees himself face down on the sidewalk, whiskey brown blood seeping. The dead gray pavement surrounds, still dead.
100% Blood Alcohol Content, he says.
The glass warps the window warps the sky. The blue is dark, unsaturated. The clouds are all wrong. There's a plane. He can hear the plane. He can hear his heart pumping. There's a fly by his ear. His watch ticks. Tick. Tick. Tick. The phone's been ringing. How long has that been happening? He puts down his glass, picks up the phone.
Yes? He asks.
Hello? Patrick?
Patrick has to think for a bit. The pressure around his head is unbearable. The air is so thick that when he opens his mouth to speak again the words are pushed back, routed by invisible sludge. Panicking, he closes his face. Eyes glued shut, mouth sewed, he holds the phone aloft like a dirty rag.
Patrick we need to figure this out. Stop avoiding me for god's sake. We need to talk about this.
It's a woman's voice from the receiver. She sounds sad. He wants to talk to her. His mouth won't open though. It's sewed shut after all.
Nothing to be done.
Patrick hangs up the phone. Patrick lights his last cigarette. Patrick picks up the whiskey. He's back at the window now. The air is so heavy his shoulders slump. It's so heavy his eyelids are half closed and his knees are buckling. He stares into the nothingness like a dead man. The window bears a smudge right in his line of sight, right where he is staring.
Somebody should clean these g*****n windows, he says, frowning.
He lets his body fall forward, resting his forehead against the pane, against the smudge. Relief. Better than the cigarettes. Better than the whiskey. His eyes open wide in revelation. Dropping the glass and butt to the floor, he brings both palms up against the window.
He braces himself to push, fighting the pressure, wrestling the window. Harder. Harder still. The relief is incredible. The window bows to his will now, bending bending bending. Bending but not breaking. The relief is orgasmic. Better than death maybe. Better than anything. The air is so light around him he is floating. The office becomes an elevator, rapidly ascending. Gray clouds blur by. He must be to the top floor by now. He must be past it. The window reaches a critical point, Patrick too.
The office now slows, reaches a peak, and begins to fall. Deep gray clouds rise past. Heat licks at his ankles. The weight is coming back.
No! He yells.
He stops pushing and steps back. His energy is sapped. Patrick can't see the smudge on the window anymore. Patrick can hardly see anything. The floor at his feet is on fire. Thick gray smoke permeates the room, invading his nose and mouth. Patrick's leg is engulfed in flame. His flesh is burning. The pain is abhorrent. Squinting, coughing, dying, Patrick turns and grabs a heavy stapler from his desk.
SOMEBODY SHOULD CLEAN THESE F*****G WINDOWS! He screams.
Heaving the stapler through the window pane, Patrick throws himself after it.
The smoke from the firewater fire crawls out of the office window and up the sky. Another plane goes by. Patrick's watch ticks. Tick. Tick. Tick. The phone rings. His blood pools on the sidewalk below. That dead gray pavement is just as gray, just as dead.
He sets the glass down, ice chattering. He releases a sigh, a long outward breath, nostrils flared. He swallows. The whiskey burns. The air is hot and stale, snuggling up to his pores, suffocating his skin.
I am not happy, he says aloud.
He takes another sip slowly. He slurps. He sloshes it around in his mouth, occupying his mind with the taste.
Smoky, he says, again into space.
Stroking his thick beard now, his mind wanders. Smoke → Fire → Forest Fire → Smokey the Bear → Smoke again. Smoke. He lights a cigarette, laughing through the sides of his mouth.
Cancer is funny now? Again out loud, smile remaining.
He inhales smoke. The slow incline. The anticipation. He exhales. No rush. No relief. Nothing but the taste. He takes another hit. He lights another cigarette. Three more. Five more. The pack's almost out. Nothing is changed.
F*****g smoke.
The air is so heavy, a pascal away from crushing his skull. He's up now. He's by a window, glass in hand. One whole wall in his office is windows. They bow outward visibly from the pressure. He lets out a chuckle again, no smile this time.
Fifty-Five Floors. Fffff...
Eyes closed. Teeth on lip. Knuckles white around his firewater, the liquid smoke. He bites down harder. Harder. Harderrrrrrrr.
F***.
He sucks a deep breath, blows. No relief. Another sip. He sees himself in the glass. He sees himself face down on the sidewalk, whiskey brown blood seeping. The dead gray pavement surrounds, still dead.
100% Blood Alcohol Content, he says.
The glass warps the window warps the sky. The blue is dark, unsaturated. The clouds are all wrong. There's a plane. He can hear the plane. He can hear his heart pumping. There's a fly by his ear. His watch ticks. Tick. Tick. Tick. The phone's been ringing. How long has that been happening? He puts down his glass, picks up the phone.
Yes? He asks.
Hello? Patrick?
Patrick has to think for a bit. The pressure around his head is unbearable. The air is so thick that when he opens his mouth to speak again the words are pushed back, routed by invisible sludge. Panicking, he closes his face. Eyes glued shut, mouth sewed, he holds the phone aloft like a dirty rag.
Patrick we need to figure this out. Stop avoiding me for god's sake. We need to talk about this.
It's a woman's voice from the receiver. She sounds sad. He wants to talk to her. His mouth won't open though. It's sewed shut after all.
Nothing to be done.
Patrick hangs up the phone. Patrick lights his last cigarette. Patrick picks up the whiskey. He's back at the window now. The air is so heavy his shoulders slump. It's so heavy his eyelids are half closed and his knees are buckling. He stares into the nothingness like a dead man. The window bears a smudge right in his line of sight, right where he is staring.
Somebody should clean these g*****n windows, he says, frowning.
He lets his body fall forward, resting his forehead against the pane, against the smudge. Relief. Better than the cigarettes. Better than the whiskey. His eyes open wide in revelation. Dropping the glass and butt to the floor, he brings both palms up against the window.
He braces himself to push, fighting the pressure, wrestling the window. Harder. Harder still. The relief is incredible. The window bows to his will now, bending bending bending. Bending but not breaking. The relief is orgasmic. Better than death maybe. Better than anything. The air is so light around him he is floating. The office becomes an elevator, rapidly ascending. Gray clouds blur by. He must be to the top floor by now. He must be past it. The window reaches a critical point, Patrick too.
The office now slows, reaches a peak, and begins to fall. Deep gray clouds rise past. Heat licks at his ankles. The weight is coming back.
No! He yells.
He stops pushing and steps back. His energy is sapped. Patrick can't see the smudge on the window anymore. Patrick can hardly see anything. The floor at his feet is on fire. Thick gray smoke permeates the room, invading his nose and mouth. Patrick's leg is engulfed in flame. His flesh is burning. The pain is abhorrent. Squinting, coughing, dying, Patrick turns and grabs a heavy stapler from his desk.
SOMEBODY SHOULD CLEAN THESE F*****G WINDOWS! He screams.
Heaving the stapler through the window pane, Patrick throws himself after it.
The smoke from the firewater fire crawls out of the office window and up the sky. Another plane goes by. Patrick's watch ticks. Tick. Tick. Tick. The phone rings. His blood pools on the sidewalk below. That dead gray pavement is just as gray, just as dead.