Dabbling into short story writing. I hope you read and enjoy.
At five his mother, who’s a devout catholic, would bring him to mass every Sunday.
At 6:00PM he’d remember donning a nice sunday suit and dress pants.
Crisp white with 2 buttons undone at the top.
Black pants.
Dressed to the nines.
One Sunday, his mother forgot to unbutton one of them.
He threw a fit, and locked himself for three hours in his room.
At 15 he’d lock his room turning the knobs five times until he settles in his bed staying at the left side facing the ceiling.
In his mind, facing the ceiling was the best way to die in case he never wakes up.
At 20 he started walking on pavements, agitated in stepping through the cracks.
In his mind, the earth would open and swallow him alive.
He’s 40 years old now, with wrinkly reddish hands.
His compulsion to clean his hands every five minutes made the skin on his palms thin and full of blisters.
In his mind, you can never be too sure of germs and bacteria lingering in the air.
He has lived all 40 years with these strange ticks and compulsions.
He needs the control.
He is control.
Everyday at 6:00AM he wakes up and brushes his teeth.
He can only use the white tooth pastes.
All other colors are an abomination.
At 6:30AM he fixes his bed.
But for a man in control and with compulsions, he removes all bed linens and changes them.
He can not sleep on a bed that doesn’t have new sheets.
6:45AM he steps on his treadmill.
He uses it for 20 minutes and downs a liter of water.
Not two glasses of water.
Not a swig.
But a liter.
This water he drinks is carefully measured the night before.
At 7:30AM he gets ready to shower and head to work.
He has been using the same shampoo for 15 years.
Anti-dandruff.
Color white.
All other shampoo colors are an abomination.
His soap is hypo-allergenic and scent-free.
Color white.
All other soap colors are an abomination.
His bathroom isn’t tiled.
He can not tolerate cracks in pavements, let alone cracks in his floors and walls.
At 8:45AM he starts his car and heads off to work.
He locks all of his doors five times.
It takes him .5769 seconds each turn of the knob.
Entering the building he works in, the doorman waves and says a polite “Good Morning”.
He looks at the doorman but doesn’t greet back.
He uses the 2nd elevator to the left.
No passengers allowed.
Only him.
As he presses the button to the 25th floor.
He takes out first a white handkerchief to protect his hands from touching it.
The 25 button lights a color and green and the lift starts ascending.
He pockets the white handkerchief and slowly throws it at the trash can upon landing the 25th floor.
He goes through work.
He’s an accountant.
Numbers are always constant.
Never changing.
It gives him the power of control.
He finishes his work, and heads home.
He’s done this for over 20 years.
Routinary.
Predictable.
Control.
Everyday is a cycle of yesterday.
Except Thursdays.
He’s a man isn’t he?
He has needs.
Every Thursday after work, he doesn’t head home.
He goes to this bar and rewards himself with a gin and tonic.
The bar man fixes him this as soon as he places himself on the 2nd seat.
This man who’s in control all the time is attractive and lean.
It takes him 15 minutes to spot a girl he likes.
Every Thursday, he indulges himself.
Brings a girl to the hotel beside the bar.
Fucks her twice, and takes her from behind.
He leaves.
He never takes them home.
His sanctuary is his.
The next day, the cycle repeats.
This attractive and lean man, who’s always in control, died one morning.
He was right when he was 15 - It did look better dying with himself facing the ceiling in case he never wakes up.
And he did never wake up.
He was alone.
He died in control.
Knowing his body facing the ceiling was what he wanted all along.
