Part Char, The end.
A bed of glass shards awaited me the next morning. Yelping in pain as I cut myself, I fell back into bed. The sound of blood pounding in my ears only served to worsen the headache I had. Then again, I should be used to it by now. Every morning for the last few months, I had awoken with a hangover rather than a smile. I ripped apart the pillowcases and bandaged my feet to the best of my abilities, before assessing my situation. There were clothes strewn everywhere, and my suitcase was halfway full. It was almost mocking me to finish, to pack it and leave.
I had to stop doing this. Every week, the same thing happened. I would start to pack, stop to drink, wake up and clean up the mess. I had gotten into a rut. Mine was the never-ending story of a broken heart trying to heal itself, but failing. I laughed aloud; I had read it far to often in the books I reviewed. To me, those stories were nothing but melodramatic fluff that need not sully the paper they were printed on. Now, I was living one of those stories myself. I could almost see the authors that I belittled taunting my misfortune. A fitting punishment; at least Dante would think so.
The phone rang. My feet had stopped bleeding some time ago, and I stepped gingerly and cautiously towards the phone, wincing in pain as the wounds touched the cold floor. I answered it barely before the answering machine claimed the call for itself.
“Hello?” I said.
“Curtis! What is the meaning of this, this, this crap that I see in my Inbox?” sputtered Harriet. “You have any idea what your article is saying?”
“Good morning Harriet, I missed you too.” She was always too curt, and I always picked on her for it.
“Cram the chit chat and explain why I should not fire your ass and hire some professional writers who don’t give me this mystic and spiritual bull shit that you always seem to slather all over my magazine!” she said, her voice almost going into a screech. “What kind of title is ‘Title Pending’? And as for the article itself, I have no idea where you come up with this crap. ‘You should write with the intention that this work may be your last work ever, that you may die before the completion of this manuscript. Therefore, do not title your ongoing works as title pending. If you give it a name, you give it a life. It will flourish of it’s own accord, and you will simply be swept away as you write without having to fight about a title that does not exist yet.’ If you think I am going to publish this nonsense, you are sorely mistaken.”
“I quit,” I said calmly. It was done. The decision was made. I would not let my life stay in this rut.
“You what? Quit? Don’t think you can threaten me with ultimat-“ was as far as Harriet got before I hung up on her.
The phone rang again, but this time I did not answer. Busying myself with cleaning the glass off the floor, I let the answering machine face Harriet’s wrath. It was no concern of mine any more. My life, my most illustrious work, would not go unfinished.
I prepared as best as I could for the next week as I awaited my flight. All my bills were paid off in advance for three months, and I had Bruce checking my place every week for any signs of crime. The answering machine was full of messages from Harriet as she kept on begging me to return.
Finally, it was Saturday. The skies were clear, and I was ready to leave. I was headed out the door when the mailman came by with a package. I signed for it and opened it. It was this month’s copy of my magazine. I started to flip it open, but my cab arrived, and so I put it away.
The people seated around me at the airport eyed me cautiously as I began to laugh halfway through the current issue. I finally realized how badly Harriet needed me. She just had a bark worse than her bite. I did not need to read any more, my mind was completely at ease. I always over-thought the ramifications of any actions I was planning, but now I was at bliss at doing the action and not agonizing over every single little possibility that played around the decision.
“Ladies and gentleman, flight number A56776 is now departing for Amsterdam from Gate 19. Please head to the gate to board the plane. That was flight A56776 leaving from Gate 19. Thank you,” announced a female voice. That was my first leg of my trip to India; I would be connected from Amsterdam to Agra, the city in which Mariam lived.
I gathered my carry on luggage, but left the magazine on the chair beside me, open to the page that I found so humorous. I did not need to take it with me, it would only keep reminding me of what I was trying to leave behind and change about my life. ‘Title Pending’ would be read by some other traveler today; hopefully it would inspire them to do the same, and not wait for their life to end with their title pending.
The End.
Comments and criticisms would be GLADLY appreciated.
Z
I had to stop doing this. Every week, the same thing happened. I would start to pack, stop to drink, wake up and clean up the mess. I had gotten into a rut. Mine was the never-ending story of a broken heart trying to heal itself, but failing. I laughed aloud; I had read it far to often in the books I reviewed. To me, those stories were nothing but melodramatic fluff that need not sully the paper they were printed on. Now, I was living one of those stories myself. I could almost see the authors that I belittled taunting my misfortune. A fitting punishment; at least Dante would think so.
The phone rang. My feet had stopped bleeding some time ago, and I stepped gingerly and cautiously towards the phone, wincing in pain as the wounds touched the cold floor. I answered it barely before the answering machine claimed the call for itself.
“Hello?” I said.
“Curtis! What is the meaning of this, this, this crap that I see in my Inbox?” sputtered Harriet. “You have any idea what your article is saying?”
“Good morning Harriet, I missed you too.” She was always too curt, and I always picked on her for it.
“Cram the chit chat and explain why I should not fire your ass and hire some professional writers who don’t give me this mystic and spiritual bull shit that you always seem to slather all over my magazine!” she said, her voice almost going into a screech. “What kind of title is ‘Title Pending’? And as for the article itself, I have no idea where you come up with this crap. ‘You should write with the intention that this work may be your last work ever, that you may die before the completion of this manuscript. Therefore, do not title your ongoing works as title pending. If you give it a name, you give it a life. It will flourish of it’s own accord, and you will simply be swept away as you write without having to fight about a title that does not exist yet.’ If you think I am going to publish this nonsense, you are sorely mistaken.”
“I quit,” I said calmly. It was done. The decision was made. I would not let my life stay in this rut.
“You what? Quit? Don’t think you can threaten me with ultimat-“ was as far as Harriet got before I hung up on her.
The phone rang again, but this time I did not answer. Busying myself with cleaning the glass off the floor, I let the answering machine face Harriet’s wrath. It was no concern of mine any more. My life, my most illustrious work, would not go unfinished.
I prepared as best as I could for the next week as I awaited my flight. All my bills were paid off in advance for three months, and I had Bruce checking my place every week for any signs of crime. The answering machine was full of messages from Harriet as she kept on begging me to return.
Finally, it was Saturday. The skies were clear, and I was ready to leave. I was headed out the door when the mailman came by with a package. I signed for it and opened it. It was this month’s copy of my magazine. I started to flip it open, but my cab arrived, and so I put it away.
The people seated around me at the airport eyed me cautiously as I began to laugh halfway through the current issue. I finally realized how badly Harriet needed me. She just had a bark worse than her bite. I did not need to read any more, my mind was completely at ease. I always over-thought the ramifications of any actions I was planning, but now I was at bliss at doing the action and not agonizing over every single little possibility that played around the decision.
“Ladies and gentleman, flight number A56776 is now departing for Amsterdam from Gate 19. Please head to the gate to board the plane. That was flight A56776 leaving from Gate 19. Thank you,” announced a female voice. That was my first leg of my trip to India; I would be connected from Amsterdam to Agra, the city in which Mariam lived.
I gathered my carry on luggage, but left the magazine on the chair beside me, open to the page that I found so humorous. I did not need to take it with me, it would only keep reminding me of what I was trying to leave behind and change about my life. ‘Title Pending’ would be read by some other traveler today; hopefully it would inspire them to do the same, and not wait for their life to end with their title pending.
The End.
Comments and criticisms would be GLADLY appreciated.
Z