Taking Another Crack at Normal

....the yellow mini-bic clicked against the table top as he set it down and pulled the first drag off his cigarette. He looked down at it and smirked a little remembering he intentionally picked the color because it was cheery. He thought maybe he could force a little of that upon himself.


   There was enough light coming into the room that he could see to mix himself a drink, walk to the bathroom, but not enough that someone could see him watching the entrance to the motel through the slightly drawn curtains. He left the window shut so no one could see smoke coming out and figure there was someone sitting, watching.


   His phone didn't ring anymore. No one responded to his invites for dinner-and he received none. That had all happened pretty quickly. If people had known, he could understand it, but, mostly he rapidly learned that he had picked the wrong friends. That much he had already known, to a degree, but he never figured he had picked all of his friends wrong. The scandal of desperation was silent to those around him, but, somehow, they must have felt it. He knew it had effected his personality....for Fuck's sake, his life was ruined long before they found Ollie's body in that burned-out car. The rest was just the poison-laced icing on the cake.  
   His instincts were sharp enough for him to pick up that some cop had let something slip and maybe tipped-off Ollie's crew. Now 17 months later, still unharmed he should be okay, right? Why the paranoia? Because it wasn't paranoia anymore, it was full-blown PTSD and he knew it. He was jumping at, and chasing shadows. Sometimes it was all he could do to drink himself to sleep, get up in the morning, and go to work like a normal person. Most people hadn't commented on the weight gain-and he'd lost half of what he had gained. How could he explain to people that it was 'fighting weight'? That 270lbs of terrified, pissed off Mick were harder to stuff into the trunk of car than 185lbs of terrified, pissed-off Mick?
"D'ares a question for ya" he mockingly quoted from his favorite cop show as he mulled it all over.
  After the naked, drunken incident with the gun and the smashed furniture he had reeled himself in a bit.
Tried not to be so paranoid.
Cut back on the booze.
It worked pretty well, but now, he was so sick of being afraid that he was starting to mock his fear-which he felt was a good step. He had moved from paranoia to fear, fear to awareness, awareness to mindfulness and occasionally, relaxation and uninterrupted sleep. That was the good part...right?
   On the other hand, he had recently noticed that he no longer fell asleep and woke up imagining his arms around-who was it this week? Mary? Robin? He mostly just didn't feel, except when his life randomly came over him in an inappropriate place and he felt like he would just start sobbing...uncontrollable wracking and heaving. Maybe he longed for that more than touch, or love, or sex. Letting go that once on the day he smashed his desk felt like a weight being lifted. But it eventually came back.
    Lately he had been talking himself into a more rational line of thinking in a bid to free himself and get his life back. Rationally, if something were to happen, it would have by now. The fear was self-fulfilling. Much of the weight would still be there from time to time-you can't ever just walk away from some shit. But it was time to take another step.
  He tapped out his smoke in the ashtray and rose to refill his drink. He paused for a moment and decided he would try to enjoy the last vestiges of the sunset.- As a 'fuck you!' to his paranoia-so he pulled the half of the curtains by his seat all the way back letting in the rosy glow of impending twilight. He turned to go fetch some more ice for his vodka from the bucket by the sink.
The bullet was moving so fast that it didn't even shatter the thick double glazed window.Just punched a spider-web hole through it. It barely slowed down as it passed straight through the center of his heart-practically liquefying it then severed his thumb and forefinger and shattering his glass on the way out.
Technically, he was probably dead before he hit the floor, but he was aware of the sound the bullet made as it punched a grapefruit sized hole in the door opposite him. 
He felt his nose break when he hit the floor and that was it.

Another Nowhere. Another Long, Slow Suicide.

The path. The shuffling, sleepless, midnight waltz of wondering and second-guessing. Memories left behind that return from the din and shadow to take you down from behind when you aren’t looking. The shadow from behind, knife wielding, wild like a claw. A blade in your back back as you sleepwalk through your day.
Memorizing the car and plate number because you didn’t like the look in his eye or the way he smoked, or the way he swung wide making the turn. If you were a cop you’d follow him. Looking for a reason to pull him over-suspecting you might find ‘tools’ like rope etc. in the spotless trunk. Maybe that it why he never replaced the defective license plate. The chipping reflective background his one submission to imperfection that might otherwise draw too much attention to his all too clean demeanor. Sober. Single. Driving around  at 4am in a car inherited from Grandpa.
Calm.
Well-rested.
Too confident and polite.
Or maybe you are just thinking of your own mistakes.
Where are your pictures of her? What happened?
Why?
Did you blow it, or is it a blessing in disguise?
You aren’t ever getting ‘round this are you? Never shaking loose no matter how many times you shed your skin. Run in circles. Paint yourself into corners. Shy away. Avoid prudently.
Obsess.
Wake up sweating.
Wake up screaming, “I’m gonna kill you, you SICK FUCK!”
...while reaching for your piece.....
 Feeling the guilt of dreaming of her until she finally shrieks at you in your dream to leave her alone. Is she on the receiving end in her dreams too...then what does that mean?
 That you are right?
That you are wrong?
That you were wrong and now your obsession is right?
Is that why you wait for the the sun to sleep?
There were already too many shadows following you into your dreams?
Afraid she would meet one of the monsters that are waiting with shotguns and hatchets behind you door when you come home at night? That she might get confused with one of them and get caught in the crossfire?....or like one of them better?
What made you like this?
What sort of animal gets treated like a friend by monsters?
Surely they don’t smell their own kind?
Why are you startled to to feel the butt of your pistol in the dark at night?
You put it there. There for a reason,no?
Why would you second guess prudence dictating broader shoulders, a stronger chin.....?
That is Mother Nature making you safer.
Old Man Darkness and my sidearm.
If it wasn’t a game, why did you not take it more seriously?
Maybe you wanted to be nothing more than a few teeth in a random, undiscovered pile of ash somewhere.
Maybe you just lost your purpose-or found it again.
..for the first time.
Or got lost in the fantasy world that told you these things aren’t real.
There is no boogeyman. No Legba. No Devil Himself.
Can’t be. Just a teleplay in black and white on Kinescope, late at night, to make you scared for fun and buy stuff-right?
If you don’t belive, the Man won’t neither.
The Non-Believer gets no play. He is just an amateur...but your game...? Heh. Never happened.
You become a cold-case. Maybe an itch in some old dick’s craw-after he retires and has time to think about such things.
Vanished. Ran away? Suicide?
Yeah, probably.
He left all his stuff and his cat almost starved? His friends say “no...?...that should be enough..surely?
Not if there is no proof it ain’t-sorry ma’am. We’ll let you know if anything changes.
What if no one keeps asking?
What happens then?
Shit gets sold. Someone takes the cat. Friends wonder....right? Or did all the writing, all the notes on the laptop, all the thoughts of fear imparted to those not departed just add up to one escape plan or another.
One good.
One bad.
None the wiser.
That was the plan?

Was it truly? Was that the real reason it happened? Just giving up in the sickest way possible? Bitching-out when you always stood to the last-even for the dumbest reasons? Was it all just a game of chicken?
Another long, slow suicide. Another nowhere?
Waiting for the shoe to drop-because it always will?
..so, really, there is no point...?
Just laying there, wondering if you should jerk off again, just to prove a point, or get some sleep.
Wake up in the morning.
Shower.
Dress.
And field-strip and clean your pistol over morning coffee.
And plan for the here and now.
And the future.