Preface: First off thank you to anyone who liked or decided to read the first part which if you haven’t would highly encourage you to start at the beginning. Very grateful of the really good reception to me deviating from the normal content. Can’t believe that went up in August…. oh my I really hope no one was really anticipating more of this…sorry. I’ve been holding on to it as not much work has been completed on chapter 3 as I’ve felt that I haven’t had the time or headspace to do it justice and while it is just a short, dumb story I really want to hold myself to the established tone and pacing that I’m still hoping to achieve. Thank you dear reader, and may you enjoy the following.

Click for Chapter 1

Ignorance has its price, right? I find it fucked up how that “things” of utter toxicity seem to be what’s found the cheapest. Ignorance is bliss. That is what they’ll tell you but anyone who’s really been ignorant for too long will know when I say that bliss is a toxin.

I had to leave my house early this morning. It aggravates me deeply, like a Phillip’s head puncturing my Hepatic artery but I couldn’t be there. The past few weeks, I couldn’t enter that kitchen without smelling her perfume. I couldn’t see my unkempt bed without feeling that lumpy blankets were shaped to her contour. I can’t look at that dumb hand, wishing it was another “hidden gem” of her museum and she’d tell me how it’s from a young Russian lad, and how she knows it’s part of some collection called, “Ruki i nogi malen’kogo rebenka” or something to the likes of that. And I would say something dumb like “and here I thought all Russians knew was how to make was Vodka”. My uneasiness had me stumped, I just needed one morning away from that haunted kitchen.

That morning my breakfast would be spent in the parking lot of the fast food joint I’ve past on my route to work for the last 5 years, not once had I had the impulse to infringe on my morning routine and eat my breakfast there. In fact, it’s been ages since I’ve eaten breakfast from here. I’d swear the last time I ate with these plastics forks I’d break of the middle prong, tell my mom I made it a proper forklift. When did I lose that… innocence? Is it just an unpleasant fact that everyone finds that someday they’ve lost that childish wonderment, or did I lose it? When did I lose it? I wish my answer was the divorce, that it was a fresh wound only caused by recent stress and fatigue. That once it was all over, I could recover it, but that answer would be rather dishonest. An amputee from the war understands after five years that his arm isn’t going to grow back, I know it’s gone.

A malice thought creeps in my head. I might have lost it when I met her. She might have permanently damaged me. Ruined me. I know that’s not true either. I was empty before. My breaths grow shallow, my body shudders with a numbness. I snap my composure, gazing out as my concentration shifts to the wistful movements of a plastic bag tumbling along the parking lot. It was at that point I decided that I wasn’t going to think about her any more. I’d promise myself not to call her, and not let her ghost roam my kitchen or any square inch of my apartment any longer. But promises are hard to keep.

Days Pass.

I find myself enraptured within the still hour. An hour absent of work and sleep, but reading becomes a chore, television is nothing but an unquenchable sea, and your body slowly seems to shut itself down with the lack of purpose. I had to fill that gnawing void with something, so I called her. That’s when I learned about him.

That bitch is out of her goddamn mind!

The very night after collecting her belongings from my apartment, she describes having a chance encounter with a dashing debonair, a true gentleman. A few drinks turned into a night on the town, then a lunch the next day, then dinner the next time their schedules aligned free from prior appointments. I swear if their relationship was going any faster it would be spinning circles around Daytona. Despite how disassociated we had become over the past months, I was taken aback on how she desired to confide in me.

“When do you think it’s been an appropriate time to start seeing someone again?”

“So, you feel intimate with some drunk at a bar and now you think it’s appropriate to commence open season and judge me?”

“I’m not… I’m not judging you”

“oh really, that’s nice”

“I’m not judging you! Okay! Don’t you fucking do what you always do and twists my words into something they’re not. I just…know you’re in the same circumstance that I’m in, and you you’re not afraid to be honest with me. I think he is a great guy, and there might be something there, do you think it’s moving too fast?

I think Catherine has shown her true colors as utterly co-dependent, but that’s not necessarily what you say to a person in possible distress.

“Well, if I were to say between the two of us, in the Tortoise and the Hare, I’d probably definitely say that you’re no tortoise.”

After an exasperated deep exhale “Thanks, you really know what to say”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. I don’t know the guy but if something in you says there’s something that makes you happy on the horizon, then why not sprint towards it”

Catherine seems taken aback, can audible clear her throat before continuing “Thank you, somehow I knew I’d feel better about it after talking to you”

The rest of the conversation is nothing but a blur to me. Not that any of this really matters. It didn’t matter than, and it certainly doesn’t matter now.

I tried to soothe my mind sent a drift by finishing my night reading another chapter of Crime and Punishment. My eyes lifted retreating from the crisp print of the hardcover and that’s when I found myself gazing back into the peculiar.

It moved again.

There was no mistaking it this time, What the fuck is going on. To maybe have some sort of false memory about one thumb was a possibility, but the entire hand in an entirely new position is something no one could mistake. The ring finger was now tightly tucked in with the thumb as the remaining fingers contorted as if trying to grasp a large apple between the three of them.

How is this possible? Maybe this object is some sort of clock or moving art piece. It doesn’t make sense, as it looks as any store-bought mannequin does, I shake the thing vigorously and hear no indication of anything inside, and I can not brute force anything to budge even in the slightest.

What are you?

One thought on “I’m Scared of What Will Happen Next – Short Story (part 2)

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.