the raille complex
i don't even know why i watch the news anymore. it's been the same every morning as long as i can remember. traffic, weather, tragedy. imminent threat of death from common household items. she stays later. watches the soaps until she leaves. we're not really that different. just further apart than our living arrangement would imply. but, i digress. my name is johnathan raille. i am a low-level clerk for a high-level firm. i am an american. meaning, short of the two-and-a-half kids, i have it all. mediocre job, mediocre home, mediocre wife. mediocre life. until, that is, i found "the truth" beneath my floorboards.
my wife, she would have thrown a fit, threatened divorce even, had she seen the linoleum lying shredded about the kitchen. and the scattered plywood planks, dead and decaying, barely a solid foundation to live on. but, shes at her mothers. i hate her mother. but again, i ramble.
back to "the truth". i got this inclination, after seeing an elderly woman on the news who found forty thousand dollars underneath her floorboards, to tear up my own. (it's not like my idiot landlord bothers to do anything or notice anything but the rent check around here anyways.) the linoleum was old, in need of replacement, crumble in your fingertips type old. it took a day to remove the shards and crumbs. if i'm going to do this though, i'm going to do it right. news cameras will want to see a clean home. present the best face for the company before i have my sweet redemption in leaving.
having bagged the linoleum and put it outside for the city to take care of, i moved on to the floorboards. despite their obvious age and state of disrepair, they proved much more formidable than i had expected. my boss is calling. why haven't i been to work? sick, sir. that's what i'll tell him if i answer the phone. i prefer to keep it in another room. i don't like anyone who would call me anyways. they can wait for their explanation, two weeks, three? i waited six months for my first raise. fifty extra cents an hour. twenty extra bucks a week. one thousand and forty extra dollars a year. stretch the numbers and it almost seems adequate. almost.
day four. plywood's coming along nicely. house looks like a construction zone. ate twice. shit once. pissed three times. forgot to watch the news again. doesn't feel like it though. i still know the top stories of the day. traffic, weather, tragedy. my blender is an assuming yet highly lethal piece of machinery. or the microwave. or the cell phone i never bought. something like that. showered. didn't sleep again. "the truth" demands i not rest. the search continued, mostly uneventful.
day five. my first real obstacle. turns out i actually have a foundation. concrete, no less. shovel and pickaxe are of little use against this new threat. makes the plywood seem almost trivial. almost. i've decided to take an hour or two to clean up the wooden debris, though i don't know what to do about the thick sour dusty smell in the air. maybe i could get one of those surgical masks to protect my lungs.
instead i go to the gas station and buy a pack of cigarettes. and then, to the hardware store for a nice new sledgehammer to break up my foundation.
evening. concrete isn't so tough now. i catch myself finding purpose in this destruction of my home. stopped showering, eat less, smoke more. only pissed once. didn't shit today. i've been passing the time making up the days top news stories. little girl mauled by vicious monkeys at zoo. eighteen car pileup leaves twelve dead, causes major traffic delay. why does it take them so long to move the corpses? your garbage disposal is an ancient egyptian torture device.
day six? i've given up on cleaning this place. the concrete dust has come to rest on dirty dishes and food. it gives this place a distinct feel. like an old persons home decades after they've died. untouched, serene, and peaceful. despite the heavy deconstruction taking place at its core. the news for the day? seven year old boy found raped and beaten under railroad bridge, police suspect classmate. semi truck spills hazardous materials on interstate, mutant lizards abound. could your showerhead be a killer? find out more at six o' clock. "the truth" taunt me. i know it's here.
some time later. dirt. success. the shovel tears through the earth with a satisfying feel. like plunging a knife into the tender skin just beneath the ribs. some bone here or there, but altogether, things are going smoothly now. i've become much more efficient. and my boss isn't calling anymore. it looks like a meteorite crash landed in this room. the crater from my works defying the otherwise calm nature of this house. i know it's here, somewhere.
1:36 a.m. i've found it. "the truth". she's yelling at me. how did my wife get here? she's at her mothers. i hate her mother. who is this? no, no, it's most certainly her.what is this? what's going on? i demand. the. truth. shit. i don't suppose i can let her live now. whoever she is. one solid plunge from the shovel should solve the problem. i strike her seven times. who's that? at the door this time? it must be her. it must be.
police! open up! but. i am so close. the truth is right there. in that deep grave. and now, they're going to see how dirty my house is. i should have cleaned. yes. i should have cleaned after myself. but, it's a bit late for that now. am i crying? is she? she's dead. right? well. i suppose i'll be on the news tomorrow morning. man kills wife in suburbs. no motive apparent. fuck you. every reason was crystal fucking clear to me. i hope they gas me. i hate the news.
wake up. to the middle-america disease.
my wife, she would have thrown a fit, threatened divorce even, had she seen the linoleum lying shredded about the kitchen. and the scattered plywood planks, dead and decaying, barely a solid foundation to live on. but, shes at her mothers. i hate her mother. but again, i ramble.
back to "the truth". i got this inclination, after seeing an elderly woman on the news who found forty thousand dollars underneath her floorboards, to tear up my own. (it's not like my idiot landlord bothers to do anything or notice anything but the rent check around here anyways.) the linoleum was old, in need of replacement, crumble in your fingertips type old. it took a day to remove the shards and crumbs. if i'm going to do this though, i'm going to do it right. news cameras will want to see a clean home. present the best face for the company before i have my sweet redemption in leaving.
having bagged the linoleum and put it outside for the city to take care of, i moved on to the floorboards. despite their obvious age and state of disrepair, they proved much more formidable than i had expected. my boss is calling. why haven't i been to work? sick, sir. that's what i'll tell him if i answer the phone. i prefer to keep it in another room. i don't like anyone who would call me anyways. they can wait for their explanation, two weeks, three? i waited six months for my first raise. fifty extra cents an hour. twenty extra bucks a week. one thousand and forty extra dollars a year. stretch the numbers and it almost seems adequate. almost.
day four. plywood's coming along nicely. house looks like a construction zone. ate twice. shit once. pissed three times. forgot to watch the news again. doesn't feel like it though. i still know the top stories of the day. traffic, weather, tragedy. my blender is an assuming yet highly lethal piece of machinery. or the microwave. or the cell phone i never bought. something like that. showered. didn't sleep again. "the truth" demands i not rest. the search continued, mostly uneventful.
day five. my first real obstacle. turns out i actually have a foundation. concrete, no less. shovel and pickaxe are of little use against this new threat. makes the plywood seem almost trivial. almost. i've decided to take an hour or two to clean up the wooden debris, though i don't know what to do about the thick sour dusty smell in the air. maybe i could get one of those surgical masks to protect my lungs.
instead i go to the gas station and buy a pack of cigarettes. and then, to the hardware store for a nice new sledgehammer to break up my foundation.
evening. concrete isn't so tough now. i catch myself finding purpose in this destruction of my home. stopped showering, eat less, smoke more. only pissed once. didn't shit today. i've been passing the time making up the days top news stories. little girl mauled by vicious monkeys at zoo. eighteen car pileup leaves twelve dead, causes major traffic delay. why does it take them so long to move the corpses? your garbage disposal is an ancient egyptian torture device.
day six? i've given up on cleaning this place. the concrete dust has come to rest on dirty dishes and food. it gives this place a distinct feel. like an old persons home decades after they've died. untouched, serene, and peaceful. despite the heavy deconstruction taking place at its core. the news for the day? seven year old boy found raped and beaten under railroad bridge, police suspect classmate. semi truck spills hazardous materials on interstate, mutant lizards abound. could your showerhead be a killer? find out more at six o' clock. "the truth" taunt me. i know it's here.
some time later. dirt. success. the shovel tears through the earth with a satisfying feel. like plunging a knife into the tender skin just beneath the ribs. some bone here or there, but altogether, things are going smoothly now. i've become much more efficient. and my boss isn't calling anymore. it looks like a meteorite crash landed in this room. the crater from my works defying the otherwise calm nature of this house. i know it's here, somewhere.
1:36 a.m. i've found it. "the truth". she's yelling at me. how did my wife get here? she's at her mothers. i hate her mother. who is this? no, no, it's most certainly her.what is this? what's going on? i demand. the. truth. shit. i don't suppose i can let her live now. whoever she is. one solid plunge from the shovel should solve the problem. i strike her seven times. who's that? at the door this time? it must be her. it must be.
police! open up! but. i am so close. the truth is right there. in that deep grave. and now, they're going to see how dirty my house is. i should have cleaned. yes. i should have cleaned after myself. but, it's a bit late for that now. am i crying? is she? she's dead. right? well. i suppose i'll be on the news tomorrow morning. man kills wife in suburbs. no motive apparent. fuck you. every reason was crystal fucking clear to me. i hope they gas me. i hate the news.
wake up. to the middle-america disease.