The magnet on the fridge looked back at me with a void stare that left me feeling emptier than I had for months. How had I ended up sitting on the counter, looking at the ugly mug of the cartoon grandmother saying whatever witty quip she was, I’ll never know.
My disposition, viewed from the outside, would only show a very normal man in a very normal room. Yes, normal was such a subjective word.
“I grew up in a small town, but didn’t everyone? We weren’t rich, but was anyone? Maybe comparing my life to yours and everyone else’s isn’t something that will get us further through my story. A snail's pace, sure, but would you like me to continue and get through this, or should I just stop now and suffer the consequences like polite society assumes we should? If I’m to go on I don’t want interruptions, no breaks, if you need to use the head, feel free to do it now because I’m not stopping once I’ve started.”
My shoes, just so, crept up the refrigerator to waist level and rested there. If I was going to start this story I was going to have to be comfortable. The shirt hung open, the fan blowing it back and forth like the stained white sheet on a maid’s line. The shoe prints up the fridge grasped my attention from grandma’s droll jibe, the one that had fascinated me for a little too long, and suddenly had me fixated on their mesmerizing pattern. Left, right, left, and back again, all encompassed within a beautiful shape meant only for those genius enough to figure out its code.
“I wasn’t one of those,” I continued on, thinking the conversation in my head was still the one I was having. “Or maybe I was.”
It was blurry, a stained glass window on open eyes, and I was only just coming back to what one might think was reality. The prints caught my attention once more and I faded back to that land that only children sometimes reach.
“You know, the one where children play, the butterflies swarm, and Jesus makes everyone warm and fuzzy.”
My banter drifted back and forth between the room and my head as a sound to the left brought me back. Shit, I had to keep with it to make it through this. Looking around, my current situation forced a little throw-up to make its way up my oesophagus, pool in my mouth for a quick minute, and just as fast make its way back down my throat. At least my mind was nearly back to normal. I gave a little shake to the old noggin and continued on.
So you probably are sitting there in total wonder and amazement asking yourself why you’re here. I could tell you, sure, but that would be getting ahead of myself. I should probably continue to tell you about the childhood, if you might call it that, which brought me, and you, to my humble abode.
“I always thought my upbringing was a typical one. Damn it! There’s that word again, typical. What’s that? I said normal before? I meant to say normal… Whatever, the fact that you looked at me like that makes me want to stop my story and continue with our previous event. No? Fine, I’ll continue. What I meant to say was normal, and it was normal enough to me.”
The woman in the chair, her hair matted, her clothes torn, her legs shredded like cheese, looked at me with wild fear. Blood dripped as if a faucet left oh, so slightly on, down to the floor and curdled its way towards my shoes. The stains running up the fridge, each perfect shoe imprint, told a story of its own, as bones in a grave might. Her perfect hair, a once perfect golden sun blonde, was shredded and mostly on the floor. What was left and had once been so beautiful was now dishevelled and looked more like a dirty lhasa apso.
The knife, a dull, rusted, Sous-Chef style, was lying listfully on the floor next to her feet. Yellow strands of rope, the good stuff, not that acrylic garbage, mixed in with her hair making the piles seem to almost glisten.
I ignored her, or rather, I’m not sure if I even noticed her. I wasn’t even sure if she had looked at me. An outside observer may have seen that moment and decided that I was talking to myself, but I was sure, if not positive, that she had said something to me. So enticed with my own voice, my own story, the outside had quickly become something far too surreal for me to even comprehend. I was still transfixed on the outcome of my self-traipsing shoes that I couldn’t be bothered with the wench. I had quickly become disassociated with my current state of affairs, which was to be expected, but I felt the need to continue and try to justify my actions.
“You see, my upbringing was usual. I was an only child. Sure, my Dad beat me, my Mom abused drugs a fair amount, yet together they did the best they could.
