It's Not You (Short Story)

An aroma of rich coffee filled the crowded café. Dim yellow lights colored the room-- cheerful with a hint of veiled depression. A woman and man sat in the far corner, next to a window. The woman had an untouched mug of cappuccino, and frequently turned away to gaze at the parking lot outside; the man took frequent sips of his plain expresso, his eyes intently on her expression. 

“I know that’s not what you want to hear,” she said, fiddling with the mug handle.

“I know it’s not what you really mean.” He took a large gulp of coffee and stretched his arms to his head.

“Jed, I know exactly what I mean. Don’t tell me what I’m thinking.”

“I know you, Sarah. You don’t really mean it.”

“Can we talk about something else?”

“Sarah, you can’t just change the topic after telling me that.”

“Let’s just talk about something else, and revisit the topic later.” She turned her head away from him. “There’s so many cars in the lot today.”

“It’s a Saturday afternoon, of course there are,” he said without looking. His eyes remained fixed on her.

Averting her eyes from his, she counted the number of red cars in the lot. 14.

“Sarah, you should drink that before it gets cold.”

“Don’t tell me what to do. God I hate it when you do that.” She sighed and rubbed her temples.

“Geez it was just a suggestion, Sarah. You know I can’t make you do anything.” He remained composed in the same open and relaxed posture, looking at her.

“I’m just done with this. With you. I’ve told you the truth. We’re done,” she says, agitated.

“Hey, it’s okay Sarah. Look at me. Look at me, Sarah, you can’t be serious.” His beseeching tone makes her finally lift her eyes to his.

A long second passed as they decipher each other’s gaze.

The man suddenly turned away, frowning. “Damn you. It’s true.”

A tear fell down the woman’s face. “I’m sorry Jed. I’m so sorry.”

“Damn you.” He knocked her mug to the ground; broken white shards amidst a lukewarm caramel puddle.

The woman started to cry harder, mumbling incoherent phrases. Wiping her face with one hand, she picked up her stained bag with the other. “Bye Jed.” She walks out of the coffee shop, still sniffling and breathing rapidly.

The man groaned and covered his face with his hands. Five minutes passed by. A dark haired man in an ironed white polo shirt, light brown pants, body cowered, face hidden in large masculine hands; a table for two with a knocked over chair; broken pieces of a mug floating above untouched coffee.

Finally, he lifted his head and looked out the window. There were no cars in the parking lot.

An Insomniatic Night (Short Story)

She laid face up on her bed, counting the seconds that passed, feeling the thumps of her heart, and replaying the last day, week, year. The past and future flickered below tense eyelids, quickening her heartbeat. Bedtime had become a safe haven for her thoughts; every night, they flooded her consciousness, too powerful to be blocked. She drowned in reminiscent memories, regrets, and future plans, heaving and breathless amidst the waves. She heard her roommate’s soft snores, and realized that everyone was deep asleep but her. That awareness rose in her a sense of exclusion and loneliness. They were in the world of slumber, while she remained trap in the ever-slow earthbound time. Then suddenly, another realization dawned on her, stimulating her body into a state of hyperactivity. The energy flowed through her spine, and she felt more alive than ever. She sat upright on her bed and quietly climbed down her bunk bed.

Jacket. Scarves. Gloves. Ear muffs.

The night was beautiful. Enshrouded by the veil of darkness, lighted by the soft moonlight, she felt invincible. Throwing her head back, roaring with laughter, she danced like a ballerina intoxicated by the pure air. Air for her breathes, ground for her feet, dancing for her sake only. She spun and leaped and pounced until her body was heated from the exertion.

Gentle white flurries began to pollinate the surroundings. Soon, a fine layer of crystalline snow outlined the trees and buildings. She stopped dancing to admire the new beauty around her. A smile lit her face and she started laughing uncontrollably. The melody of her joy vibrated throughout the white world. So this is how it’s supposed to feel, she thought. Looking up the the heavens, arms outstretched, she drank the sky.     

Long Gone (Short Story)- Part 2

As promised, here's part 2 of "Long Gone." If you haven't already, check out part 1 here: http://paintedexistance.blogspot.com/2015/12/long-gone-short-story-part-1.html

Enjoy :)

“Oh my god, she’s dead.” Becky is screaming. Heat rushing, heart pounding, insanity. A paramedic pushes the stroller with Amelia’s body, lain peacefully like a fallen angel, still, limp, and lifeless. “Ma’am, please step aside.”

“Please, just let me see her, please.” Becky’s voice quivers in hysteria. A tall young paramedic moves toward her, “Hey Rebecca, right? Mind if we talk?” With guiding arms and outstretched hands, he motions for her to walk to follow him down the hall. “Steve?” A momentary visage of confusion fleets around her face, then vanishes. “Oh right, I forgot you volunteered as an emergency medical technician. Never seen you in action before…” Her voice trails off as she is reminded of the situation, so present and real that it feels imaginary, like a movie scene gone wrong. But there is no rewind, pause, or power off.

“Yeah, luckily the worst we usually get on campus are crazy drunks from frat parties.” He attempts a wry smile that manifests into a grimace, the knot between his thick brows seems permanently etched on his profile. “I just wanted to let you know that Amelia’s not dead. We’re not sure what’s wrong with her, her heartbeat’s normal, breathing unimpaired, great physical condition of course,” Steve pauses, and moves his feet to redistributes his body weight, and feels a rush of heat, “But, er, she’s unresponsive. Not making eye contact, no speech. We’ve never seen anything like it before.” Relieved, Becky runs her hands down her hair and lets out a sigh. “She’s alive. Okay. So she’ll be fine. She’s going to be fine, right?” Steve’s profile tenses as he decides on the most realistic, yet hopeful answer. “We will try our best.”

A week passes, and Becky visits Amelia every day, 7:30 a.m. before class and 7:00 p.m. after dinner. Most visits, Steve joins her, quietly entering the room, deep in thought, emanating a concerned, yet calm presence, which Becky comes to appreciate.    

“Hey, anything?” Steve’s voice is low, soothing, slightly scratchy, and ever-hopeful.

“No.” It is their usual exchange, as both students shift uncomfortably in their chairs and stare at the body of Amelia, sitting upright with smooth, pale skin, vacant light blue eyes, and straight light brown hair falling to a delicate collarbone, alive and present, yet so empty.

“Hey Amelia, remember this? My god we were such idiots as freshmen,” Becky lifts a photo to Amelia’s face. Every day she has attempted a different project in their mission to “bring back Amelia.” 

Monday was music: The Beetles, The Smiths, Kesha, The Wombats, Eminem, Carrie Underwood, flooded the hospital hall, stirring memories in every patient but the one for which it was intended. Tuesday was food: grapes and yogurt, soft pretzals, mint chocolate chip ice cream, which ended up chewed and swallowed by the unresponsive body, the rest of the ice cream shared amongst Becky and Steve.

“Yum, good ice cream,” Steve had said. Becky shrugged, feeling more defeated with every thick, decadent mouthful. But she did not give up; in fact, she tried even harder. Wednesday was clothing, Thursday was Amelia’s insane collection of mugs, Friday was ‘bring Amelia’s swim team’, Saturday was ‘bring every student Amelia knew’ (an exhausting endeavor), and today, Becky had a stack of photos on her lap, each intended to stimulate a specific memory.

“Oh I forgot about this one, you guys look so cute.” Becky showed Steve a photo of him and Amelia sharing a plate of pasta. “I didn’t know you kept that,” Steve said, turning his head away. “I didn’t, Amelia did,” Becky said, looking at Steve thoughtfully. “She took it pretty hard, you know.”

“Well I did too, but we just weren’t working out. It was a mutual thing though, no hard feelings.” Steve had taken the picture, and was twirling it in his hand, reminiscing about that night at the Italian restaurant when he and Amelia were still fresh under love’s strong grasp. It was her laugh, he concluded. Her laugh that did the trick. She had a tendency to snort when laughing; every snort made him crazier about her.

“Steve?” Becky touches his arm gently. “Hmm what’s up?” He suddenly awakens from his thoughts.

“What are we going to do? Her parents are coming up next weekend. The doctors don’t know what’s wrong, no physical problem, nothing. She’s not showing signs of a mental disorder per-say,” her voice gets higher and more strained with every word, “We have to do something, but the question is, what?”

Steve presses his hands against his forehead for a moment, and suddenly turns toward Becky with an intent, hardened gaze. “There has to be something that triggered this whole, er, episode. We have to find the trigger.”

With this idea in mind, their hearts welled with newfound hope.

Long Gone (Short Story) - Part 1

Note to readers: "Long Gone" is a new short story that I started today. I have a feeling that it'll be a lengthier one, so I've decided to divide it into parts and post each section as I write it...like a live screening of the story's eventual creation. The second part will be up sometime this week, so stay tuned!
Part 2: http://paintedexistance.blogspot.com/2015/12/long-gone-short-story-part-2.html

Amelia Richard Jameson was not a recluse. She was bright, energetic, compassionate, artful in conversation, skilled at reading faces. She could blend into a crowd, yet thrust energy into it, simultaneously. She could drone on about a subject with passion, or at times, listen thoughtfully, quietly, contently. She knew how to smile sweetly, laugh outrageously, frown understandingly. No one who ever met the 20-year-old college student disliked her. In fact, most would agree that she was the kindest, most generous acquaintance they knew. Everyone consented that Amelia Richard Jameson had a bright future ahead of her. And she deserved it.

So when her roommate Becky finds the bedroom door locked, she assumes Amelia had fallen asleep. Finally trying the “coffee nap”. When a friend invites Becky to dinner, she consents. Forgetting all about Amelia still asleep in the bedroom.

Around 11 pm, Becky returns home. Boy does she have a lot to tell Amelia. Jack Meyers, the cute guy from history, finally asked her on a date. She knows what Amelia will say, cross legged on the sofa, “It’s about time. You’ve been making the first moves all semester.” And then they’ll laugh, munch on popcorn, each melting in the sweet, warm, fuzzy beginnings of romance.

“Amelia, guess what?” Becky’s voice is sing-song, happy, infatuated with fresh memories of her night.

The door is still locked. “Amelia, I know you’re not still napping. Open up dear.”

No sound.

“Amelia?” A hint of concern creeps into Becky’s vibrant voice.

“Amelia, this isn’t funny. Stop joking around.”

Around 11:30, Rebecca (Becky) Marie Amerson phones the campus police. “My bedroom, it’s locked. Uh, my roommate, she’s locked inside.” Quivering voice, confusion, denial, typical symptoms of shock. Of a sudden shift in emotional state. Of an unbearable weight slowly descending upon her body. “Hold tight, sweetie. We’ll be there shortly.”

Phone call ends. Connection ceases. And Becky Marie Amerson is alone again, sitting cross-legged, back against the locked bedroom door, willing herself not to imagine what is on the other side.

But those who cling to ignorance, when it is long gone, turn themselves into monsters.

When It Breaks (Short Story)

“Where were you last night?”

“Nowhere Tom, I was nowhere,” she replies, twisting the string in her hands.

Tom frowned, reviewing events of the past day. 7:30 a.m., he woke up, and prepared breakfast. Eggs, toast, avocados, oatmeal and milk. Then he made lunch- stir fry today. Broccoli, chicken, brown rice and beans. Two apples. She woke up later than usual, around 8 a.m, and tended to the garden. She returned 40 minutes later with handfuls of mini tomatoes in her pockets, set the pride of her morning on the counter. She took a piece of toast, chewed slowly, and furrowed her brows. “It’s dry. You left it in the toaster too long.” Pause. He had learned long ago the power of silence.

They left for work at 9:19 a.m. At 5 p.m. he called her workplace, as usual. “You ready to head back home?” “Oh this is Beth, Anne left an hour ago, did she not tell you? She got a ride from George, I think they were going to stop by Costco on their way back.” “Okay, no problem, thanks for letting me know.” Tom forced a carefree voice. Everything was fine. Anne would be back home by 6. Even when the kids were still home, it was common for his absent-minded wife to leave work early and return home later than him.  

This time, she returned much later.

“It doesn’t take three hours to buy a pint of milk.” Tom said, tapping his foot against the chair leg.

“It’s none of your business where I was, okay?” Anne threw the piece of string to the ground.

“I’m your husband, of course it’s my business.”

“I told you already, I went to Costco after work with George,” Anne said, her voice an octave higher.

“But you couldn’t have been there for three hours.” Tom repeated, his voice quieter. The rhythm of his foot tapping quickened.

Tom was normally a loud, confident person. Around Anne, it was different. Everything was different with her. She was volatile, explosive. A wrong move, and his wife turned into a monster. So Tom tiptoed around the house, submitting to admonitions, bitterness, discontent, for a feigned truce.

But Anne never crossed this line. Until now.

“Nothing happened, okay?”

 “NOTHING HAPPENED? WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO THINK WHEN YOU GO TO COSTCO WITH A SINGLE MAN? DO YOU THINK I’M STUPID? THERE IS A THREE HOUR SPAN FROM THE TIME YOU LEFT WORK TO THE TIME YOU RETURNED HOME. WHAT WERE YOU GUYS DOING?”

“We were just talking.” Anne said. She stared at her transformed husband in shock.

“TALKING? FOR THREE HOURS?”

“Yes, just talking Tom.”

“WELL WHILE YOU WERE TALKING, I WAS WORRIED SICK. WHY DID YOU NOT CALL?”

“I didn’t realize you even cared.” Habit made her tone snarky. Aggressive. Unsympathetic.

Silence.

“Why would I not care?” Tom had sat down, hands over his head. 

"When have you shown me that you cared?” Anne stared out the window, refusing to look at him.

“WHY WOULD I NOT CARE? I prepare meals, I clean around the house, I do everything for this house.” Tom’s tapping had turned into stomps, emphasizing every phrase.

“When have you done anything for me, Tom, huh? Anything for me?”

“And George does? George really cares?” He froze and took a deep breath, bracing himself for the answer.

Pause.

“Yes. More than you.” Anne blinked rapidly. She continued looking intently at the fig tree outside.

Tom suddenly gets up, with a new spark in his eyes. He walks toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.” Tom turns the knob slowly.

Anne turns around, suddenly pale, and opens her mouth to say something.

“You have never cared,” He said, looks at her a final time, and slams the door.