The following short-story/vignette/fragment comes in response to a writing challenge issued by one of my fellow editors at IndieInk. Once a week, we plan to prompt, and potentially stump, one of our other editors with ideas for blog posts. This week, mine was: "The one that got away. Write from his or her perspective, fiction or non."
Gee, mystery editor, thanks a bunch.
At any rate, I like to think I rose to the challenge. Have a look-see.
He's not who he once was. That's certain.
He used to laugh more. He used to live more.
He used to love more. I think he used to love me more.
It's hard to tell sometimes. He rarely speaks these days. Instead, he sits at home in the dark, listening to old records with the sound turned to just over a whisper, eyes half-closed, lips forming words without sounding them, silently speaking a damning manifesto listing any and all perceived wrongs. Damning the world. Damning himself.
The factory shut its doors eight months ago. Shut him out. He wasn't the only one, of course, but that hardly matters. They rejected him, his hard work, his obvious dedication. He can't even talk about it without spitting on the ground afterward. "Business decision, my ass," he grumbles, his mutter recalling the first clatter of stones before an avalanche of anger and frustration and spewing vitriol.
He's started drinking. At first, he just drank his usual beer, just a little more often. Then bourbon with a mixer. Now it's whiskey, sometimes chased with that beer, sometimes straight from the bottle. He falls asleep in his chair, the empty bottle eventually slipping from his grasp and spilling the rest of the alcohol onto the carpet.
This is not the man I fell in love with. The man who comforted me when I needed it. The man who helped raise our children, made them laugh, hugged them tight, kissed their tears away. That man left when the factory closed, and left this one in his place.
I don't want this brutish man with his rages and stupors and sorrowful retellings of glorious past deeds. I want the man that I fell in love with.
Tonight, I pack the kids into the wagon and go looking for that man. I hope I find him. I miss him.
Update: It seems that the inestimable Schmutzie has featured this here post on Five Star Friday this week. I'm honored.
You *think* you rose to the challenge? Oh, my dear friend. You MORE THAN rose to the challenge. You kicked it square in the arse and then lit its arsehole on fire.
ReplyDelete*golf claps*
You are one hell of a writer.
Yeah, I'd say you killed it
ReplyDeleteGreat work. You did get dealt a heavy challenge, way to smack it down dude.
ReplyDeleteThat was absolutely terrific.
ReplyDeleteDamn. Very impressive. I have to agree with the others.
ReplyDeleteGorgeous.
ReplyDeleteKryptonite.
ReplyDelete