This entry is meant to capture the moments immediately following Breathless’ entrance into my home.
November 26th, 2012 6:15 AM:
Breathless made a quick escape from my Pinto, slamming the door behind him. His steps were silent as he walked to my front door. His thin, pale face, covered in the filth of his life in the silent, suffocating darkness, showed no emotion as I took my time walking. Quickly, I took note of every aspect of his attire, slowing my pace as the distance between us disappeared. The denim of his jeans was a dark and beaten fabric, worn through to allow his knobby, shadowed knees, to peak through his slim fitting trousers. He wore the same blue shirt, which read “I was out of breath,” in white lettering. Now, I could see the back of his denim jacket, which contained a backwards sigma in black lettering. His coarse, jet hair billowed and curled around his ears, draped barely below his eyebrows, and teased his neck. His demeanor was disturbingly fey. It was as though I were in the presence of a doomed traveler who was bound and determined to pull me to the gallows. My ululations and pleas made no difference to him, as the depth of his dark pupils often revealed, as they sat dark and still amongst swirling heterochromatic irises of Hazel and Blue.
I stabbed my key into the lock and listened as the mechanism came to life with a quiet, low grind. My creaky, red door slowly opened, revealing my sanctuary. As if he were blind to them, Breathless listened (if one could call his uninterested, stoic presence in the middle of my lecture listening) as I described every detail of my humble asylum. The pristine walls and carpet, in their brilliant white, stood out to me, as a palace should to its king. I let my hand hover over the walls while I spoke and took my shoes off to pace around the clean floor in my bare feet, occasionally flashing a stale grin as my wooden guest stood, with his face maintaining the same statuesque quality of a member of the Queen’s guard. I went on, with faux enthusiasm, “Four bedrooms, three bathrooms, super-fancy spiral staircase, two deadbolts and a chain on the front and back door, and a garage–which doubles as an ‘art’ studio, if you can call what I do art. These two things in the middle of the room? They’re couches, not tables, so don’t eat here. There’s a table in the dining room. Seriously, don’t start thinking you’re going to wreck my place with barbaric habits.”
I would often rant on like this, talking down to my guest as though it were he, not I, who was in the inferior position; the prisoner, rather than the guard.
“Fridge is stocked to the brim—do fridges have brims? Ah it’s a metaphor. Anyway, it’s filled with the most resilient of grub, in that most of that stuff will last as long as I keep it in there. If you get hungry, you can nuke most of it. Plates and bowls are in the cabinet right above the microwave.”
Trying to convince my guest that he and I were in a relationship of friends or partners rather than slave and master, I offered him some food, provided he would let me leave the room before he ate.
“I can only imagine what a black-hole of a spectacle it must be to watch you eat.”
The conversation barrier still remained unbroken.
“Well, that pretty much covers the living room—oh, except for that book shelf. There’s one in basically every room in the house. Assuming you can read, you can help yourself, so long as you don’t trash my stuff. I seriously cannot stress enough how important it is that you don’t revert to a child-like state, or decide to practice your audition for the movie version of Fahrenheit 451. My kitchen and garage are pretty run of the mill, so let’s make our way up the stairs. No flash photography. Get it? You’re homeless! Why would you have a camera?”
I led the way upstairs, with death trailing me, not-breathing down my neck. “Your bedroom is on the right. The sheets are in the bathroom closet, on the top shelf. That pretty much concludes our little tour. I’m pretty sure it goes without saying, but make yourself at home.”
I went into my room, locked the door and proceeded to fall into bed.
November 26th, 2012 7:45 PM:
My doorbell began ringing shortly after I woke up. I hurriedly threw on clothes and rushed down the stairs. I opened my front door to reveal a friend of mine, named Steve Newton.
He spoke loudly. “Hey you overweight bastard, how the fuck are you?”
Since I had last seen him, I’d put on a great deal of weight. He, being that he is an asshole, felt the need to call attention to it.
“I’m doing alright you gutter-minded piece of shit. And I’m not overweight, thank you very much. I have a medical condition called ‘big-bonededness’. Look it up.”
“I think I read about in psychology. It was in the chapter on narcissistic cop outs for obesity and making up fucking words.”
“Sounds oddly specific. Did you make that up?”
“Yeah I made it up, you humorless twat. So, are you going to let me in or what? I brought a bottle of Paddy’s and an eighth, so we can get disgusting AND high!”
Newt, as I called him, had been a psychiatrist. That sentence itself is an amazing one if you know Newt. The reason I say it in the past tense is because he had his license revoked for something—I don’t know what. Now he owned a chain of liquor stores and grew his own weed. He was a short, chubby man with a perpetual grin. He had thick red hair, which is funny because he would always bring up these sexual fantasies about women with red hair—my guess is that he’s a closet transsexual, though I’d never mention that to his face. His speech was often misogynistic, crass, and loud. I really think he’s a good person, for the most part. Much of his flamboyantly misogynistic speech is just a bull shit attempt to seem more ‘real’. (for clarity’s sake, I’m placing initials in front of each quotation that I deem necessary).
“Sounds good to me, as long as you don’t try to pick my brain or take off all of your clothes. Last time was really weird, man. Also, it was super inappropriate.”
“I told you already, I only get that way on rum. I’m a victim, really.”
“That’s funny. I seem to recall reading something about denial in my psychology text books. Did your professor just skip over that, or were you asleep that day?”
“I was probably asleep,” said Newt, as he pushed his way past me, inviting himself in.
As if he wasn’t there, Newt walked past my guest without acknowledging him.
“Let me paint a picture for ya,” he said. Newt always started his rants like he was “painting a picture.” “You’ve got these two girls, alright? One’s a fuckin’ knock-out, le’me tell ya. She comes sporting long red hair, a huge rack, a nice round ass—the usual.”
M: “I can only imagine that this leads to a speech about tolerance and equal rights.”
N: “Oh, of course! Anyway, the other girl: she’s just a human pimple. I mean, not literally, but she’s, like, disgusting, dude. She clearly doesn’t fucking bathe—like you can see the smell lines vibrating off of her like they do in the cartoons. And she has this faint, black mustache. Now, it’s not huge—she’s no Groucho, but she definitely looks like a pubescent Hispanic boy, or a…fuck…what has a thin mustache?”
M: “A racist?”
N: “Sure! She has a thin mustache, anyway. Now you’ve got a choice. The smelly one will have sex with you by herself if you want, but in order to lay the fox, you’ve got to do both of ‘em.”
N: “Oh, to top it off, the fox wears a strap on.”
M: “Is that supposed to be the “tell” that you’re not really a misogynist, but a misunderstood comedian who’s afraid of a little butt play?”
N: “You know me all too well.”
M: “I thought so. In that case, I’d do ‘em both, if only for the prostate massage.”
N: “I’ll drink to that!”
As he fetched our glasses from the cabinet, I made an attempt at steering the conversation in another direction.
M: “So, I haven’t introduced you to my new house guest.”
N: “New house guest? Nice. She upstairs?”
M: “She? Upstairs? Jesus, Newt, you walked right past him.”
N: “Oh, fuck, I’m sorry. Did he leave?”
M: “He’s sitting right there, Newt!”
I turned to point at Breathless, but he was gone. I went on.
M: “Well, that’s weird. Wonder where he went. Congratulations, you’re not the asshole for once.”
I didn’t bother to check upstairs for my guest, but went on to describe him.
M: “I’m not sure where the guy went, but I think you’ll like hearing about him for the sheer purpose of absurdity.”
N: “I do like absurd. Go on, then, entertain me!”
M: “Alright, the other night—like two weeks ago—I had this girl over—“
N: “Yeah? How’d it go?”
M: “She was expensive and she was named after a food or a spice or some shit. Anyway, I step outside for a post-coital square and a minute of fresh air, not intending to rhyme—“
N: “Using shitty jokes isn’t going to make me interested in your boring story.”
M: “Fuck you, I’m getting to the best part. I opened my door to find this pale, boney dude standing on my back porch.”
N: “That’s fucking weird. Did you shoot him?”
M: “Funny thing is, he’s the reason I went out and bought a gun in the first place!”
N: “And your house guest helped you kill this guy, I’m assuming?”
M: “Nope. He is the guy!”
N: “I figured. I was just, like, wishfully thinking or something. So, what, is he, like, funny or rich or something?”
M: “Nope. He hasn’t said a word since we met.”
N: “And he lives with you? How do you know he’s not an axe murderer?”
M: “I’m pretty sure he’s not an axe murderer.”
N: “Yeah? I was pretty sure that Mr.Pattson needed to be treated with a hallucinogenic, but it turns out he’s schizophrenic. Now I’m working at a liquor store. That’s what happened when I didn’t do my research properly. You, on the other hand, might end up in little pieces. I figured I’d connect the dots, since you clearly aren’t smart enough to draw this conclusion your GOD DAMN SELF. Seriously, you need to give me a good fucking reason why you have a potential murderer in your house, probably sleeping right next to where I intend to masturbate.”
M: “Here’s the thing, he’s a really interesting guy, and I don’t think he’s trying to do me any harm. I really think he’s just down on his luck and severely depressed. Just trust me. He’s not going to fuck you in your sleep, though I know how much the thought pleases you. That reminds, me, I haven’t specifically said what a disgusting human being you are since you got here.”
N: “The implication’s been there. What isn’t there is a reasonable explanation for why you are living with a mute serial killer.”
M: “I will not have you talking shit until you meet the guy! Besides, I’m kinda glad you’re here anyway. Maybe you can help me force some words out of him.”
I was in too deep. I should’ve told him right then that I was dealing with a mad man. Not only was he mad, but he was capable.
I decided to check to see if Breathless had left by going upstairs. I found an empty room. I decided to grab my shotgun to show off. I put a shell in my pocket. After I made my way down stairs I found Breathless standing in front of Newt with his hands around his throat I fumbled for my shot gun as Breathless released and faced me. As I loaded my gun, Newt, quickly regaining his composure, stood.
N: “Nice shot gun. Can you, like, not point it at me?”
M: “Sit the fuck down, Newt, now is not the fucking time for a joke!”
Breathless had control over the situation. I was lost and scared. As he moved his jaw, I racked my Remington Model 870.
N: “CAN YOU KINDLY STOP FUCKING POINTING A LOADED AND COCKED GUN AT MY HEAD AND TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?!”
I stood, silent, aiming at Breathless’ head.
N: “YOU KNOW WHAT? I’M FUCKING LEAVING. You can KEEP your crazy homeless guy, and your crazy gun pointing, bat-shit crazy…shit, I’m a psychiatrist. This really looks like paranoia. Talk to me! Say anything, M!”
M: “I’ve already said sit the fuck down, dude. It’s for your own good. This happens all the time.”
N: “Fun fact buddy: you’ve never pointed a loaded gun at my head, for any fucking reason, so do you want to explain to me what the actual fuck you’re trying to communicate here?”
M: “I’m trying to help you and me both, Newt. You can sit down, or, god willing, you can walk out that front door.”
N: “Well, since I have a choice, I’m fucking leaving. You can keep the whiskey. You obviously need it worse than I do.”
As Newt began to leave, I saw Breathless’ jaw move once again. I aimed for his lungs and pulled the trigger. Like a lightning bolt, Breathless moved out of the way, as Newt’s face flushed. His chin hit the floor. His pupils were the size of pencil tips. He looked scared. He looked sad. Finally, he looked hurt.
The High Brass Buckshot made the sound of vomit when it hits the water in your toilet. Newt’s chest, now exposed and lifeless, showed the heart’s last beat.
As I panicked, Breathless dropped his jaw completely, before I could speak.
To be continued…